


Four Hands on a Scepter

by ahloralordine



Series: We Share a Crown [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Coping with Death, F/M, Graphic descriptions of gore, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Mother Stiles Stilinski, Slow Build, Symptoms of PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:18:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahloralordine/pseuds/ahloralordine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want you to be in complete control. Things happen or don’t happen on your say. I don’t ever want to feel like I’m coercing you. I started things this time and I kept pushing. I couldn’t let myself keep going. Consent. Control. I want you to have those things.”</p><p>That’s not how things work and they both know it. Derek can’t renounce all of his responsibility and expect that to solve his trauma, all of their insecurities, and the strange, teetering imbalance between them. It’s just avoidance and denial. But Stiles will take it because he can’t think of anything else to do. To him it has always been this simple: Derek wants him, he wants Derek, and they’ll make it work however they can.</p><p>(Derek and Stiles break down their defenses. The Nemeton comes to life with blood on its rings. And an avenging angel pays a visit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. EPIGRAPH

 

“They saw that her left breast was swinging loose like a flap, and there was no need to listen for the heartbeat beneath. The mouth was wide open and ripped at the corners, as though she had choked a little in giving up the tremendous vitality she had stored so long.” –The Great Gatsby

 

She looks away for a moment to search through the collection of cards and receipts in her purse, but that’s all Stiles needs to slip away at the first distraction: the pet store across the street. He’s nine and knows how crosswalks work—God, he isn’t a _baby_ —but he just isn’t paying attention. A woman exits the entrance with a puppy in her arms. He’s bored from waiting in the line outside the ATM. He doesn’t even realize that he’s fidgeting away from his mom and wandering into the road to get a better look. The supermarket is that way anyway. He’ll just wait for her on the other side of the street.

He just isn’t paying attention.

He isn’t the only one. Three people lose and regain their attention at exactly the right times in order for this sequence of events to transpire:

“ _Oh my God, Stiles!_ ” his mom shouts when she turns and sees him in the crosswalk. Attention regained.

Oddly enough, that doesn’t make him look at her. It makes him look at the road, at the car speeding towards him without any intention of stopping. It’s far enough away that he can move. He _can_. He just _can’t._ Like a deer caught in headlights, he’s paralyzed by gleaming red chrome. Attention regained.

His mom races into the street, races to _him_. She pushes him hard enough to make him go flying. He’s in pain even before he skids across the pavement.

And then there’s this awful sound like a tea kettle screaming (the driver hitting the breaks, the squealing tires—attention regained far, far, too late) and a smack and a crunch, a bit off wail. The people at the ATM and the other people on the sidewalk, including the woman with the puppy, catch the sound and stare at the scene, at the mess on the road. The car barrels backwards and then whizzes by in the space between Stiles and his mom. Stiles catches a glimpse of the driver. He’s wearing a Beacon Hills High letterman jacket. He disappears around a bend.

The people are shouting.

“Bastard, bastard! I’ve got his license plate!”

“Someone call 911!”

“What do we do to stop the blood?”

“Oh my God! Stupid kid running in the road!”

“Stupid woman, not paying attention to her kid!”

“Driver should’ve been watching! His fault!”

“Are they coming?”

“What do we do for her? Hey, ma’am?”

There are hands on him, pulling him away from his mother and pulling him toward her. He doesn’t end up moving far. His shoulder hurts where her palms slammed into him.

She lies in the road surrounded by a pool of red. Her head is bleeding. It cracked when the car knocked her down. Stiles can see a split in her skull, leaking and leaking. Her legs are bent backwards in places. Bone pops out of her shins. She’s bleeding so much.

Stiles looks down at his legs and knows what’s inside them now. He throws up.

The ambulance comes. The paramedics put on a spinal collar and carefully hoist her onto a gurney. The police officer who accompanies the ambulance recognizes them, knows Stiles’ dad. He takes Stiles instead of forcing him to ride in the ambulance. Dad on the way to the hospital, he tells him. Will bring you to meet your dad there. Here, let’s clean you up.

(Later, when Stiles is fifteen, he’ll read _The Great Gatsby_ for class. He’ll stare at the description of Myrtle Wilson’s death in his room. He’ll roll the book up in his hands, clench his fingers tight around the cylinder of paper and decide not to throw it at the wall. He’ll go to class the next day, unassuming, fine, prepared and, ready. Then they talk about the gaping wound across her breast. And some kid will make a joke that Stiles won’t remember because of the roaring blood in his ears. And the kid will laugh. Stiles will excuse himself to the bathroom and sit in there until his fury settles down, until he’s just thinking and breathing, until the bell rings and the class is over. And no one will know because his mom would be six years dead and he should’ve been ‘over it’ by now.)

Stiles meets his dad at the hospital while his mom is in surgery. His dad hides his face in his hands, muffling his sobs. He’s sitting in a chair in the waiting room with his body crouched forward, his chest nearly touching the tops of his thighs.

And Stiles says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over and over.


	2. EXPLORATION

Stiles is at Derek’s apartment, staring out the window, when he catches sight of the heavy cloud above Beacon Hills give way to a much needed drizzle. California doesn’t often get rain at this time of year and it immediately strikes him as suspicious. But he lets the thought go. Honestly, all this supernatural stuff is making him jump at shadows. Freak weather happens—but this wasn’t even freak weather. It was just uncommon.

It’s Stiles’ fourth night at Derek’s, alone, and things have been progressing frustratingly slow. Or—well—not really ‘frustratingly.’ Sometimes he feels like Derek is covered in bees and he doesn’t know where to put his hands without getting stung. Is that a weird analogy? Probably. There’s a barrier between them that he can’t put his finger on. But the more he analyzes it, the more he thinks that he would be having the same reaction to Lydia if they were together. It’s the experience gap. It seems that can’t be bridged by willing anticipation and enthusiasm alone. Stiles really wants Derek to take the lead but apparently his wolfy senses aren’t keen enough to pick up Stiles’ rather clumsy hints.

Stiles lies lengthwise along the couch with his legs draped over Derek’s lap like a seatbelt. They’re not quite watching the recent ‘masterpiece’ of werewolf cinema. It’s more background noise than anything. Stiles finishes off the last of the fries he picked up from the local burger place halfway between his house and Derek’s apartment.

They haven’t kissed since that time in Derek’s car, a week and a half ago. They mostly just hang out and talk, which Stiles is a pro at in the worst ways.

“So is knotting an actual thing?” he asks.

Derek chokes around a sip of his soda.

“No,” he coughs. “Not as far as I know.”

That piques Stiles’ interest. “Not as far as you know? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Derek shrugs and sets his soda down in the center of his new coffee table. “It’s kind of a weird urban legend, I guess. You know how it is. Some people claim it’s true. It happened to a friend of a friend. That sort of thing. It’s total bullshit though.”

Stiles finds himself grinning. “Werewolves have urban legends. There’s a pun in there somewhere. Actually, no. I’m pretty sure that is the pun.”

Derek pinches Stiles’ calf hard. Unfortunately, he’s not at an angle to reward Derek with a nice kick to the stomach. Whatever. If Stiles can’t exact physical retribution, he can at least go for the verbal.

“You know,” he muses with a little, airy sigh. “That’s a shame. I was really looking forward to it.”

The look Derek gives him is priceless. His mouth hangs open and his nose wrinkles in a mixture of shock, horror, confusion, maybe a little intrigue (Stiles may be projecting that last one).

“I can’t—There is no response to that. Jesus fucking Christ.” Derek rubs his fingers between his eyes. Now that Stiles has spent enough time with him, he knows that mannerism for what it is: Derek’s embarrassment tell.

“I should really lay off on the werewolf porn. It’s giving me unreasonable expectations.”

Derek snorts before breaking into a quiet, huffing laugh. “Depends if it’s real or not, I guess.”

Stiles sits up a little straighter. “Hang on. Are you saying there’s real werewolf porn out there? Isn’t that, like, dangerous for exposure—ha—I mean for werewolf kind?”

Derek picks up his soda, takes a thoughtful sip, and shrugs.

“Derek. I swear to God if you’re getting my hopes up.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “You have hopes of finding real werewolf porn? That’s…”

“Optimistic? Ambitious? A testament to my eclectic tastes?” Stiles supplies.

“Really fucking weird.”

Stiles picks up his legs and slams them back onto Derek’s lap, earning an irritated grunt. Stiles isn’t done with his verbal retribution and since they’re on the topic of sex, he might as well use it to his advantage.

“I guess I don’t need to know if you’re telling the truth or not. We could always make our own videos,” he says. It’s a bold turn and completely lacks the subtlety of some of his other hints, but it’s flippant enough for him to excuse as a joke if it backfires.

Derek scoffs. “I’m never letting you film me, you got that?”

A part of Stiles just wants to be unabashedly blunt and say, ‘Alright. Why don’t we skip the filming and just have sex?’ But he doesn’t. It’s a premature hope considering they haven’t even made out yet. Fuck it. If Stiles wants it, he’s going to have to go for it. He can’t wait on Derek, and these little probing games aren’t getting him anywhere.

Stiles pulls his legs out of Derek’s lap and plants his feet on the floor. He sidles closer and ignores the flat look thrown his way.

“You know you’re about as subtle as an avalanche on a volcano, right?”

Well, that kills Stiles’ confidence a bit. Now it’s time to do some damage control before he has to crawl under his jeep like a spooked kitten.

“Can I see your claws?” he asks.

The wry, careful look on Derek’s face slides into open amusement.

“Why?” He asks like he might decline, but he sets his soda down and extends his hand into Stiles’ space.

Stiles watches Derek’s claws emerge from his fingertips. The surrounding cuticles look inflamed for the second the process takes. He wonders if it hurts.

Stiles presses his thumb on top of Derek’s and sweeps around the root of his claw.

“Not many prey animals want to see these up close,” Derek says. He leans against the opposite end of the couch, studying Stiles with a soft twist to his mouth. His eyes look dark with only the dim, stalky lamp in the corner to brighten the room. The natural glow from the sun is too muted by the heavy rain clouds and can’t provide more than a thin veil of light.

Stiles snorts. “I’m not a prey animal.”

Derek startles him by bursting into laughter. “Oh, yes you are. With those fucking doe eyes? Please.”

Stiles tilts his head, grinning at the creases around Derek’s eyes and the unassuming, human show of his teeth.

“Again with the eyes. You got an obsession there, bud?”

“Whatever, Bambi.”

Stiles traces his thumb over the curve of each of Derek’s claws, feeling the smooth grains in the keratin. Curiously, he tests the sharpness of Derek’s middle claw. It doesn’t take much to nick the skin and a small bead of blood bubbles out of the invisible cut. It doesn’t hurt.

“Careful,” Derek warns. His hand tenses in Stiles’ grip. “These aren’t just for show.”

Duh, Stiles thinks. It’s not like he’s seen Derek rip his uncle’s throat out or anything. Stiles smudges the blood away and continues exploring Derek’s hands. It can’t just be the tips of his finger that have shifted. It has to be his whole hand, right? Stiles presses his thumb firmly against the knuckle of Derek’s index finger.

Derek looks up at the front door. “Isaac’s home,” he says.

Stiles ignores him and continues prodding at the bones in his hand, trying to feel for any discernable difference. Well—he studies the bones when he can get through the muscle tissue. Seriously, how the hell does someone get muscular hands? If Derek has muscular feet, Stiles will call foul on the universe. Because that’s just fucking ridiculous.

Isaac enters the apartment sopping wet. He glances at Stiles and Derek on the couch and says, “Only you two could make handholding lethal.”

Stiles mulls that over. “Hopefully we don’t have that problem the first time we have oral sex.”

“ _Stiles_.” Derek tears his hand out of Stiles’ grasp and pinches his fingers between his eyes. Ha.

Isaac makes an offended noise and flees to his room. “Derek, I’m moving out. I swear to God!” he shouts behind the closed door.

Derek gives Stiles a menacing glare in time with a crash of thunder. Stiles cripples over laughing.

And then the TV clicks off and the lights go out.

For a moment, everything falls under a cautious hush. With the TV off, Stiles can hear the heavy, splattering drone of the downpour. The dull, blue light from the window illuminates half of Derek’s face.

Not for the first time, Stiles suppresses the belly-flopping sensation of attraction and the impulse to touch Derek—grab him—do _anything_. It’s funny—he knows he doesn’t have to conceal those impulses anymore. He probably could do just about anything to Derek, but he can’t bring himself to be that bold. Especially not now, when he has the sinking suspicion that his first paranoid instinct about the rain was right after all.

He turns away from Derek and glances out the window. A thin sheen of rain cascades down the streets, accumulating in potholes and divots worn into the dirt outside the pavement.

“Strange,” Derek says with a breathless sort of reverence.

“Please, don’t say it. Don’t say this is supernatural hoodoo.” He catches Derek’s lips twitch out of the corner of his eye, and releases a loud, aggrieved groan. Of course it is. There’s only a few weeks left of his summer vacation, so of course he’s going to spend it in a state of panic and terror, calling Scott at three in the morning after 36 hours without sleep, having an existential crisis over finding the end of the internet.

“It’s benevolent at least,” Derek says.

Oh, no. Stiles doesn’t buy that for a minute.

He snorts. “My dear sourwolf.” He gives in and pats the side of Derek’s cheek in a way that hopefully comes across as condescending and not touch-starved. “This is Beacon Hills, where the good become bad and the bad become ugly. Let’s not adopt optimism just yet.”

“Not this time,” Derek says, expression light and wistful. “This is different.”

Stiles waits for Derek to elaborate but he doesn’t, even though it’s clear he knows the perpetrator behind this unseasonal storm. They lapse into silence, Derek watching the storm and Stiles watching Derek. Stiles doesn’t want to cut their date short and head home just because they don’t have a movie to use as an excuse to spend time together. They need to confront their nerves anyway. Well, he does; he doesn’t know if nerves are responsible for Derek’s guarded behavior.

Stiles presses his back to Derek’s chest and sags against him. His heart settles into a calmer rhythm when Derek doesn’t push away and, instead, swings his legs up to lie along the couch with Stiles. Reciprocation isn’t shocking exactly, but he does feel a heady sense of relief as Derek’s hands lock over the space between the bottom of his ribs and his navel.  

They watch the storm.

Lightning scrapes across the sky in scrawling, jagged branches, flashing again and again in rapid succession. It’s a brilliant spectacle. Stiles always did like watching and listening to the rain. He’s a fan of the sun as much as the next person—he lives in California; it’s in his blood to have some appreciation for it—but there’s something about gray skies that weirdly heightens his concentration. Light pressures him to be active—fuels the need to talk, think, _move_. Cool, calm gray relieves him of that excess energy.

“You’re getting bored,” Derek says after a long rolling bout of thunder.

“Hm?”

“Of what we’ve been doing.” Most people get fed up with trying to keep Stiles entertained (when they bother, which isn’t often), so it’s nice that Derek says this like he’s stating the obvious, totally lacking the usual air of accusation or exasperation.

“Yeah. Sorry. Repetition does that.” And since Derek might get the wrong idea, Stiles has to make an embarrassing clarification. “Not of you though. I don’t get bored of listening to you. Well,” he grins, quick to cover up the earnestness of that admission, “at least not _too_ often.”

He can’t see Derek’s face and wonders if he’s smiling.

“Repetition,” Derek says. “Price of genius, huh?” If he’s not smiling, he’s at least amused.

Stiles’ face warms at the ambiguous compliment—he’s not sure if Derek is being facetious or not. “I guess,” he says as another brilliant flash of lightning slices across the dark clouds. “Lydia is kind of the same way. If she already has the hang of something, she won’t waste her time with it again—unless she really likes it, which is rare. For me, it’s more of the attention thing.”

Derek shifts his feet further down the couch and the movement jostles his legs against the outside of Stiles’ thighs. What would Derek do if Stiles placed his hands on Derek’s knees and traced them all the way up to _his_ thighs? Stiles isn’t at the right angle to initiate any curious groping since Derek’s crotch is settled at the end of his spine, but he wants to touch. He imagines it, thinks about how warm Derek would be under his hands based on the body heat seeping into his back.

God, he wants to fuck Derek. Or be fucked. Whichever—either way is fine. As long as sex is happening. Stiles has thought about the logistics of sex with Derek in long, exhausting detail—which naturally led to an obsessive bout of research and enough experimentation to fill a thorough case study on masturbation.

Fuck—he can’t even say what he wants to try in his own head without an overwhelming flush of embarrassment. Butt play. Anal sex. Before he met Derek, it was a curiosity that crossed his mind infrequently and only in passing, like when he saw Danny in the locker room or some other guy who happened to fit his “type” (and, of course, anyone fitting his type rewarded him with a menacing sneer or glower once they caught him staring—it’s like he has haughty bitch radar or something).

Stiles exhales a shuddering breath and tries to calm the buzzing in his nerves and the erection swelling between his legs. Derek’s hands are still clasped together on his stomach, only six measly inches above his dick. Nope—so not helping.

“So what do you want to do? Our options are limited,” Derek says. There’s an irritating, little uptick in his voice that betrays his amusement. He can probably smell the state Stiles is in.

Fucking each other senseless sounds like fun. He doesn’t say that, but he’s pretty sure he’s broadcasting the sentiment with every pheromone in his body. “I don’t know. You think of something. Impress me.”

Derek huffs a longsuffering sigh. “You could give me _some_ idea.”

Since it’s still on his mind, Stiles asks, “What’s causing the rain?”

A few silent minutes tick by. Stiles is ready to apologize—even if he isn’t sure what he’s apologizing _for_ — when Derek says, low and thankfully unoffended, “Give me your keys.”

“Why?” Stiles twists his neck around to gauge Derek’s expression. He isn’t big on letting anyone borrow his jeep. It doesn’t help that Derek occasionally drives like he’s racing the speed of light for shits and giggles. Granted, those are usually emergency situations, but that level of recklessness was surprising from Derek ‘I’m intimidated by my one step forward, so I must compensate with six cautious steps backward’ Hale.

“Or not. We could just stay here and you’d miss out on seeing a once in a life time opportunity.” Derek shrugs. “Fine with me.”

Never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski isn’t easily bated, because, well, he is. He plucks his keys from his pocket and presses them into the hands resting on his stomach.

“My insatiable curiosity trumps the love of my beloved. But if anything happens to my jeep, I’ll sneak wolfsbane into your hand lotion. If you catch my drift.”

Again, Stiles can’t see Derek’s face, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Derek just rolled his eyes. Derek levers further up the couch, separating his chest from Stiles’ back, and bends his left knee up to slide it out from where it was pinned between the couch and Stiles’ side. After setting his feet on the floor, Derek arches into a long, languid stretch, gets up, and heads toward the door. And if Stiles watches Derek with an unnerving amount of attention, he doesn’t comment on it.

Stiles follows Derek off the couch and toes on his sneakers while Derek slips into his jacket.

“Where are we going?” he asks. All of Derek’s favorite hangout spots and road trips seem to lead to the Preserve, so Stiles has the sinking suspicion that’s where they’re heading. In the pouring rain. Great.

Derek gives him a quick, evaluative once over. He slips into the bathroom beside them and returns with a few towels.

“Outside,” Derek says.

Stiles eyes the towels, unimpressed. “Care to expand that answer for a hundred dollars?”

“Do you _have_ a hundred dollars?” Derek drawls as he puts on his shoes.

“Does monopoly money count?”

Derek’s blank stare is answer enough; that would be a ‘no.’

“One hint? Please?” Stiles bats his eyelashes and purses his mouth in an imploring little pout.

“Do you seriously think that’s going to do anything?” Derek is giving him that one-arched-eyebrow look that’s meant to intimidate but fails to conceal the humor in his eyes. Stiles inspires sterner glares from squirrels.

“Worth a shot. It works for Erica.” Stiles looks down at his chest. “It’s because I don’t have boobs, isn’t it? I won’t change my body for you, Derek. Not for all of the monopoly money in the world.”

Derek groans and shoves him toward the door. “You’re fucking ridiculous.” Then he adds, “And I have a soft spot for Erica. That’s why she gets away with murder.”

“Are you implying you don’t have a soft spot for me?” Stiles knows that’s not true. After all, if Derek didn’t have one, Stiles would be dead a hundred times over by now.

“Sure I do.” Derek grips the back of Stiles’ neck with a force that’s somehow both rough and gentle—a firm suggestion—and guides him to the door. “You’ve bludgeoned one in like I’m your fucking piñata.”

“Got it. You’re saying I should keep pestering you for answers until you bleed candy.”

“Do that and I might accidentally scratch your jeep.”

“Do that and I might accidentally castrate you.”

“That’ll be your loss as much as mine. Now shut up and open the door.”

Stiles laughs all the way down the stairs. “Bless this day. Derek Hale made a dick joke.”

It’s a vain effort, but he attempts to shield his head with his hands from the fucking waterfall bursting from the sky. No such luck, of course. The rain drenches him in seconds. Derek doesn’t bother to duck for invisible cover; he has his leatherjacket to protect him from most of the onslaught. Stiles scrambles into the front passenger seat and Derek easily slides into the driver’s side, tossing the towels he kept safely tucked inside his jacket in the back.

“I’m wet and uncomfortable. The least you could do is tell me what we’re doing,” Stiles says, reaching for a towel. Derek slaps his hand away and Stiles rewards him with a dark scowl. He doesn’t move to grab one again.

“Once you get those wet, they’ll be useless. You’ll thank me later.” Derek starts up the jeep and backs out.

“Derek. You don’t want me to do my best impression of a five-year-old hours into a long road trip. You really don’t. And if you make a comment about that being my default setting, five-year-old whining will be all systems go.”

Derek turns right at the end of the street. Yep, that would be the direction of the Preserve. Wet, soggy forest, rivers of mud, and hordes of mosquitos, here they come.

“It’s a goddamn surprise. Accept it and move on.”

“Derek,” Stiles simpers.

“What?”

“Are we there yet?”

***

When they reach the southern perimeter of the Preserve, Derek takes them down roads Stiles never knew existed. He’s pretty sure they weren’t put here by whichever service carves trails and roads into national parks. The apparent years of poor upkeep are a clue. Brambles and vines overtake the edges and even invade the road in some places. The path is far from level; his jeep’s shocks and tires take a wallop every time Derek hurdles over a large bump. Stiles makes sharp, alarmed noises at the back of his throat to communicate his intense disapproval of the way Derek is handling his jeep.

Derek rolls his eyes, which Stiles notices are blazing red now that he isn’t staring at the road in abject horror. “You drove your jeep through a warehouse. Stop worrying about twigs and thorns.”

Stiles doesn’t have a comeback for that. Other than he can worry about whatever he damn well pleases because it’s _his_ jeep, which isn’t clever or convincing so he keeps it to himself.

A loud yelp erupts from his throat when they fishtail in a nasty pool of mud. The rain makes this makeshift road even more of a disaster.

Carefully, they curve around an enormous stump that would struggle to fit in Stiles’ bedroom. He can only imagine what the tree looked like in its full glory. It’s undeniable now—the layout of this road is so conscientious of nature that it confirms his theory: this is a personal, unofficial road. Otherwise, that stump would’ve been ripped out of the way.

A sad, sobering thought comes to mind. The Hales built this. There aren’t any symbols that indicate that this is Hale property, but there’s a confidence in the way Derek twists around these awkward and thoughtful curves. Occasionally, Derek’s brow creases, confused and uncertain, before smoothing away in time with a knowing twist of the wheel. That’s the expression of someone delving into an old memory. Stiles has seen it enough on his dad’s face when he looks at white lilies (oddly his mom’s wedding bouquet—she loved them, despite their morbid symbol—and the first flowers on her grave), pictures (half of them are stored in his dad’s closet), buttercup yellow (the color of his mom’s favorite blouse), and a million tiny things that would be insignificant to anyone but them.

At this revelation, Stiles feels all of his petulance drain out of him. Which creates an antsy, jittery silence. He really doesn’t want to say anything cavalier about Derek’s family and sour the mood, so he moves to switch on the radio. Static greets him from every station.

“Don’t bother,” Derek says. “This is a supernaturally induced dead zone.”

They pass the murky waters of an algae encrusted bog.

***

It’s another twelve rocky minutes before they emerge into a massive clearing. A meadow is probably more accurate in terms of size, but it’s hard to think of it as one when miles upon miles of forest enclose it. Now that they’re beyond the shelter of the trees, the rain comes down in thick, unforgiving sheets, sluicing down the windshield and destroying their visibility. Derek dials up the wiper speed. It helps a little, but not much. Whatever Derek plans for Stiles to see, they won’t be observing from the dry, secure interior of the jeep.

“This is cool,” Stiles says. Maybe there’s too much question or hesitation in his tone to sound sincere, but he means it. He never thought something like this existed in the Preserve.

“Just wait,” Derek whispers. His eyes are trained on the farthest edge of the clearing. They’re still blood red.

Stiles and Derek listen to the rain splatter against metal, wood, and earth. And then something changes.

A blustering wind skims across the tops of the trees where Derek keeps his focus. There’s a tall, thin, shadowy shape in the center of the wind’s path. It settles on the grass and a spiraling whirlwind billows out of the shape, causing the long grass to bow backwards from the force. The rain still comes down hard, but it’s slightly lighter than it was a moment ago.

Derek looks at Stiles now, green-eyed and gentle. “And that would be a Tempest Witch. A Trúma.”

The sight matches the thrilling flutter of wonder kids have at the idea of something beyond the ordinary and in the realm of fairytales; it’s everything Stiles hoped was out there when he discovered that magic and werewolves did exist. So many frequent encounters with the malevolent kind poisoned that optimistic hope.

Stiles can’t think of a thing to say.

“We can get closer,” Derek suggests.

“If you’re sure it’s okay,” Stiles flounders. His hard grained caution gets the better of him. “I mean—I don’t want to piss it off or anything.”

“We won’t.” Derek unbuckles his seatbelt. “If you were a werewolf, things would be different. Isaac or any of the others would have to come with you, Lydia, or alone if they wanted to see the Trúma. Even just two werewolves would be considered an ambush. But you’re human, so it won’t care.”

Derek exits the jeep while Stiles takes a moment to mentally prepare himself for the cold rain he knows will soak him to the bone. He stuffs his phone into his glove compartment, throws the door open, and steps out. But the rain _isn’t_ cold—he’s surprised to find that it’s rather tepid. Even so, it plasters his hair to his forehead and glues his tee-shirt to his skin. His jeans feel cumbersome with the added weight of water. Lightning flashes—a tree at the edge of the clearing splits with an almighty crack and smolders. Thunder immediately follows.

Derek motions Stiles further into the clearing, until they’re crouched low in the grass, fifteen feet away from the Trúma. He can see the detail of its form.

The Trúma is upright and tall, clearly somewhat humanoid, but a dense straw cloak or poncho conceals the width of its body and its arms and legs from view. Only the head is visible.

The face looks like a dark bird mask. The beak is separated into two parts, the upper and lower halves, and contains one row of white, rectangular teeth, like the fusion between a bird and human mouth. The beak is a triangular shaft that begins in the center of the face and extends horizontally six inches before ending in a hook.

Bright turquoise orbs sit in the center of almond-shaped carvings and are capped by elongated rectangles imitating eyebrows. And when Stiles says ‘orbs,’ he means that in the truest sense; they’re slightly protruding spherical jewels uninhibited by eyelids. If he made a circle with his thumb and index finger, he might have the approximate size of the Trúma’s eyes. They glisten with a watery sheen and have variations of color dispersed over the surface. Those patches of color shift closer to one end of the outside ‘carvings,’ betraying the eyes’ movements. The face _isn’t_ a mask, no matter how much it looks like one.

Stiles marvels at the creature. Until it tilts its head to the side and spots them.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses and shuffles backwards on his hands and knees. Grass teases his exposed skin.

“Relax,” Derek says. He secures an arm around Stiles, pulling him close in order to restrain him. “It won’t do anything.”

“How do you know?” Stiles demands. His heart throbs in his chest. He isn’t sure if it’s the proximity of an unknown entity—which would always equate to a potential threat, regardless of what Derek said—or _Derek’s_ proximity and the arm around his waist.

“I just do. I’ve met this one twice before, back when I was a kid. It’s strange.” Derek releases Stiles and brushes his fingers through his short bangs. “They aren’t supposed to strike the same place twice. Werewolves have their own lore. There’s a story that says a Trúma’s desire to touch every part of the world keeps them alive for thousands of years. I always thought that story was crap because of this Trúma since it kept coming around.”

“What does the bestiary say about them?” Stiles asks. He’s curious. If werewolves didn’t know maybe someone else would.

The Trúma keeps bending and twisting its body side to side, like a waddling bird trying to peek over a huge boulder. Little by little, it approaches.

Derek snorts and shakes his head. His mouth stretches into a grim, close-mouthed smile. “I doubt any hunters have come across them. They’re rare, Stiles. They aren’t witches exactly—they’re closer to demigods. And the numbers of demigod races are always incredibly small. Also, you might want to remember that the bestiary was written by _hunters_ not the fucking Audubon Society for magical creatures. The bestiary is a hit list. If you want a reliable, neutral text, go to a witch, druid, or werewolf. You won’t get one from a human.”

Stiles flinches. An unsettling mix of offense, understanding, and chagrin burns bright in his chest. Derek hates hunters—totally understandable. No one has that right more than Derek Hale. Stiles gets that. But does Derek have to be so passive aggressive when it comes to humans as a whole? Scratch that—Derek is never passive aggressive; he doesn’t spare anyone if he wants to drive a point, which is pretty much the opposite of passive. Fuck—of course Stiles didn’t forget how they came across the bestiary, or more specifically, who originally possessed it. But not _all_ humans involved in supernatural business had to be overly biased assholes.

“Hey, I didn’t—” Derek doesn’t get a chance to finish.

The Trúma stops two feet from where Stiles’ hand lies flat against the mud. Ethereal, turquoise eyes bare down on them. The wind billowing from the Trúma’s body puts a chill in Stiles’ soaked clothing.

Stiles doesn’t dare move, but Derek rises to his feet to stare it in the eye. He cups his hands in front of the Trúma. The hollow shafts of its straw poncho crinkle as it bends forward to peck each palm. Stiles doesn’t know if he should follow Derek’s example.

The Trúma doesn’t wait for him to figure it out. It bends lower and taps its beak gently against the top of his skull. And then it’s gone—it sails into the air with the grace and ease of a dandelion seed caught in the wind. With the Trúma’s departure, the rainfall resumes its previous intensity. Stiles and Derek flee to the jeep. When they crawl inside, they slam their respective doors, shutting out the rain’s assault.

Fuck, it’s cold. As soon as Derek starts the jeep, Stiles reaches over and cranks the heat. He stares down at the water pooling around his legs and spilling over the edge of his seat. His jeans and underwear are a heavy, squelching discomfort. He strips off his shirt and wrings the water out over his soggy, muddy sneakers and reaches for the towels in the back. Drying off helps a bit, but he wishes he could wring out his jeans.

As a joke he asks, “Hey, would it bother you if I took my pants off too?”

“Define ‘bother.’”

Stiles shoots Derek a look, but Derek seems determined to keep his eyes on the road and _only_ the road. Red creeps up Derek’s neck and into his cheeks and ears.

And so the game Stiles started at the apartment enters round two.

It’s not exactly calling Derek’s bluff, because it isn’t really a bluff to be called, but Stiles decides to push his boundaries by unbuckling his belt (the one around his waist and his seatbelt), lifting his hips, and shucking the rest of his clothing. It’s easy to be bold when it comes to a solitary action—he has control over this, over what he does to himself.

When his pants are around his ankles, he doesn’t miss the lightning quick glance Derek flits his way. Peeking—ha. Stiles is tempted to draw attention to it, but that would make Derek clam up.

Once Stiles pushes everything past his feet, he drapes the second towel over his lap and sets to work on wringing out his jeans and underwear. When they’re as dry as he can get them, he goes through the treacherous task of sliding his pants and underwear back on while getting jostled around an unstable road. He leaves his shirt off. The warm air against his skin is kind of nice.

Derek’s hands flex on the steering wheel.

“Thanks, by the way,” Stiles says. And the sudden shift from teasing to sincerity completely catches _him_ off-guard, and he’s the one running this show. “The thing with the Trúma was really—” He can’t think of an adequate word. ‘Cool’ and ‘awesome’ are too lame. “Beautiful,” he decides. It’s not much better. “If I had to see that a million times, I don’t think I’d ever get bored.”

Derek’s hand settles in Stiles’ hair, before moving to his bare shoulder. Fuck. Stiles isn’t prepared for the contrast in body temperature—burning hot against clammy cool.

Derek pulls away. “No problem. Glad you liked it.”

Stiles laughs. “Are you kidding? That was the best. I hope Scott gets a chance to see it before it leaves.”

“You’ll have to send him a quick message once we get out of the dead zone. The Trúma won’t be around for long.”

The jeep stumbles over a bump that ends in a malicious mud puddle. The tires get stuck. Stiles winces at all the mud that kicks up at the back and is undoubtedly coating the undercarriage. Getting out of this is going to be a pain.

Derek cuts the engine.

“Dude, let me do it,” Stiles sighs. He unbuckles his seatbelt and motions to the driver’s seat. He knows how to handle his jeep out of these messes better than Derek would.

Derek shakes his head. “No, I can push it.” Then he looks at Stiles and doesn’t make a move to get out of the jeep. Derek’s line of sight drops to Stiles’ mouth and scales down his chest and up to his face again.

Stiles swallows hard. He tries to stay on topic, because if he dwells on that look, he’s going to light up like a neon sign—his flush will start all the way down his chest, and since that’s uncovered… “I’m sorry—am I dating superman? Derek. I know werewolves have superhuman strength, but come on. Just let me do it.”

The kiss comes as a complete surprise even though Stiles should’ve seen it coming. Derek’s look was pretty explicit in its intent.

All of Stiles’ thoughts pop and fizzle like the quick flare of a firecracker. The kiss is sweet at first, slow and thorough, full of pressure and sucking. Stiles’ lower lip finds itself between Derek’s teeth, nibbled and licked with a mind-numbing amount of focus. The position is a bit awkward; Stiles presses his knees to the end of his leg space under the glove compartment and they both have to lean over the gear shift. But inconvenience doesn’t stop them.

Derek’s tongue grazes the sensitive nerves behind Stiles’ upper lip. Stiles breathes encouraging noises, opening his mouth wider on a gasp. And then every touch boils into something aggressive and desperate.

They grab for each other—Stiles throws a hand to the nape of Derek’s neck and drags his blunt fingernails through the soft hair there and along the protruding bumps of Derek’s vertebrae. Derek winds his fingers in Stiles’ hair, tugging him forward with a bizarre gentle roughness. Stiles will never understand how Derek manages to walk this tightrope between opposites. It’s not the behavior of someone who has mastered both and knows how to apply one before the other; it’s an unsettling confusion, like Derek never knows which is the right one so he chooses answers a, b, _and_ c.

They aren’t quite fighting for dominance—Stiles knows better than to initiate that kind of a battle because he would lose in a heartbeat—but there _is_ a fight, one where both sides are determined to win. They bite and claw at each other. One of Derek’s hands keeps falling to the juncture of Stiles’ neck and shoulder, and he’s sure if he were wearing his shirt, Derek would’ve torn clean through the collar. But without his shirt, again, Stiles fumbles with the electric sensation of hot skin on his cool, clammy skin and it goes straight to his dick.

Finally, he and Derek are here. Fucking finally.

Stiles wonders if his mouth is bleeding. He doesn’t taste blood but his lips feel raw and oversensitive. His lower lip falls a little below Derek’s and catches on rough stubble. Reluctantly, he and Derek break for air. Stiles blinks away spots at the corner of his vision, but he doesn’t have time to get his bearings— Derek latches onto his neck, kissing bruises into his skin.

And fuck that isn’t good—or, well, it _shouldn’t_ be good. If his dad sees marks, he’s going to call Stiles’ bluff and know just where he’s been. Or what he’s been doing at the very least. Maybe his dad won’t know who he was with immediately, but his dad will come to the correct conclusion in the end, at a time Stiles won’t predict and will be caught completely off guard.

Oh—fuck it. He revels in the feeling of Derek on him—touching him. _Fuck it_. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of them. If he has to, he’ll find a way to convince his dad that dating Derek will ensure world peace.

Stiles thinks of earlier, when he was nestled between Derek’s legs at the apartment, his back pressed to Derek’s chest. He remembers the urge he had to run his hands up Derek’s knees and all the way up his thighs. He could do it now. He could fulfill that desire and it wouldn’t be weird.

Stiles clutches at Derek’s shoulder with one hand and drops the other onto Derek’s muddy, rain damp knee.

For a moment, Stiles is derailed by the tongue laving up his neck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he moans. “ _Derek_.”

He squeezes Derek’s knee, exploring the hard bones and thick muscle, before he presses his thumb against the inseam and drags higher. The highest point of Derek’s inner thigh radiates a noticeably inhuman temperature. Stiles’ holds his hand there and lets his skin soak up Derek’s heat. He worms his fingers into the space between the underside of Derek’s crotch and the driver’s seat and squeezes the bulge between Derek’s legs.

It’s a fucking victory. Stiles brims with pride at the low, reverberating groan Derek releases into his throat.

“You’re a fucking demon,” Derek says, breathless and strained. He nips hard at Stiles’ earlobe and blows on it. And Stiles is definitely into that. He could be _undone_ by that. “Fucking bastard.” Another kiss between the end of Stiles’ jaw and the bottom of his ear. “ _Fucker_.”

Derek’s sigh is a tickling warmth against Stiles’ skin. He’s overcome by this weirdly giddy sense of power—he squeezes Derek again, and when that elicits another gasping groan, he sweeps his thumb in firm circles over Derek’s cock.

Derek retaliates with a suckling bite that’s definitely going to leave a bruise. But all of a sudden, he pulls back and kisses Stiles’ mouth quick and hard.

“I’m going to push the jeep out now,” he says, sliding out the door before Stiles has a chance to draw him back in.

It all ends rather abruptly.

Stiles blinks. What the hell was that all about? He looks out the rear window, at the portion of Derek he can see pushing the jeep, and rests his head against the edge of his seat with a sigh.

“I am so going to jerk off to this later,” he muses.

Derek freezes and looks up through the window. Shit—Stiles averts his eyes. Werewolf hearing. Dammit. He _forgot_.

Well, that’s not mortifying or anything.

***

Stiles doesn’t know how long it takes to get out of the mud puddle because the jeep is off and he doesn’t bother to check his phone for the time, but Derek manages to push the tires back on solid ground despite Stiles’ lack of faith. Naturally, when Derek reenters the jeep, he addresses the awkward, question mark in the atmosphere by ignoring it completely.

He does put his hand to the back of Stiles’ neck and sweep his thumb over the mess of bruises he left. So there’s that.

The silence strikes back, episode way too fucking many. Derek is covered in bees again. The window of tactile opportunity has officially closed. Why is this so _difficult_? Is it supposed to be? Once again, having no reference for comparison leaves Stiles foundering between frustrated and shamefully inept.

Fortunately, Stiles manages to keep his mouth shut all the way to the freeway. Mostly because he spends it trying to formulate the perfect response that won’t make Derek blow up or burrow deeper in the sand.

Once they pass the post office, Derek surprises him by breaking the silence first. “You’re not eighteen yet.”

Stiles’ gut reaction is to say, ‘Well, alert the presses. For the first time, Derek Hale volunteers an answer all by himself. Someone take a picture.’ But he doesn’t give in. Mocking Derek is the best way to ensure that he’ll never volunteer information again. On the other hand, Stiles’ reluctant patience and understanding be damned—he’s still overcome by exasperation and blistering annoyance at the return of an issue he thought was already discussed and dead.

He groans, “I thought you said that wasn’t going to stop you.”

Derek doesn’t look at him. “But it still bothers me. It just makes me more comfortable if you’re of age.”

And that draws Stiles up short. He would be a fucking douchebag to push Derek to do something he isn’t comfortable with. He didn’t think he’d be in this situation—not with Derek anyway. The dynamic between inexperienced and experienced feels oddly reversed. Something about that seems a little too deliberate.

“So that means I can’t touch you.” Stiles says this without any sort of design, but it still sounds like the prelude to one of his manipulations. And that’s really not good.

Derek grits his teeth and scoffs in a way that tells Stiles that definitely wasn’t the right thing to say. “Of course you fucking can. I swear, if you say this is all or nothing—”

“ _No_. God, no. I mean I can’t touch you because I wouldn’t know the exact limits of my boundaries, so I’d be too afraid to do anything. I’ve _been_ too afraid to do anything until now.”

Stiles doesn’t have any definitive evidence that the age of consent thing _isn’t_ really Derek’s issue, but there are too many inconsistencies with how he shields himself behind that reasoning for it to be the only problem. So Stiles takes a dangerous, hopefully non-detrimental, stab in the dark.

“What’s the real reason you’re so,” Stiles struggles to find the right word, “afraid?” Closed off, guarded, running away. Untrusting—yes, that’s probably the best one. That’s Derek Hale’s definition A.

Derek stares straight ahead even though they’re at a long red light and he could safely take his eyes off the road if he wanted to. The muscles in his jaw twitch and his knuckles are white with how tightly his hands grip the steering wheel.

“Kate.”

And so Derek reveals the missing piece behind the fire at the Hale house: the relationship between a seventeen-year-old boy and a twenty-six-year-old woman. The blurry light turns green and Derek intentionally misses his turn. He’s taking the long way home.

“Derek,” Stiles whispers without even meaning to.

He knows there isn’t anything he can say that will help. For him, the secret to expressing sympathy has always been to keep his mouth shut and that’s not just because he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Platitudes just piss him off. He has endured too many ‘I’m sorry for your loss’s whenever he had to explain that his mom couldn’t pick him up from school or didn’t have an opinion on his report card or couldn’t chaperone a school field trip because she was _dead_. And in his experience, platitudes piss everyone off even if they are mildly appreciated because they’re expected. Fuck, he can’t even touch Derek right now. Despite what Derek thinks, Stiles knows better than to pet a cornered animal.

“I don’t want your fucking pity,” Derek says with an unnerving mildness. “You can keep that to yourself.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I _don’t_ pity you. Fuck, Derek—you have to know that what we’re doing is nothing like that.”

The uncaring attitude vanishes. Derek shoots him a look of pure outrage. His face and eyes burn red. “Well, aren’t you a fucking genius? I had that figured, thanks.”

Stiles tries not to flinch or reciprocate Derek’s anger. “Well, that’s good at least. I don’t have a problem backing off, if that’s what you’re worried about—if that’s what you need.”

Derek jerks the jeep onto the side of the road and slams on the breaks.

“Jesus!” Stiles yelps as his body flies forward and catches on his taut seatbelt. “Easy! Are you trying to fuck up my jeep?”

“That’s _not_ what I want.”

Stiles rubs at the spot where his seatbelt bit sharply into his bare shoulder. “Well maybe you shouldn’t be so rough then, asshole.” And then it occurs to him that Derek was probably talking about his previous statement. “Oh.”

Derek finally looks him in the eye. His irises aren’t entirely green—they still carry flecks of red around the rim—but he seems calmer, less combative. “I want you to be in complete control. Things happen or don’t happen on your say. I don’t ever want to feel like I’m coercing you. I started things this time and I kept pushing. I couldn’t let myself keep going.” He looks away and leans his head back against the headrest, exhaling like he’s trying to blow out a birthday candle. “If you had started things—then yeah. I probably wouldn’t have stopped you. I guess it’s not so much age as.” He sweeps a hand through the air in a way that’s meant to encompass their situation. “As whatever you define this problem. I don’t really know what to call it. Consent. Control. I want you to have those things.”

Stiles bites his lip. That’s not how things work and they both know it. Derek can’t renounce all of his responsibility and expect that to solve his trauma, all of their insecurities, and the strange, teetering imbalance between them. It’s just avoidance and denial. But Stiles will take it because he can’t think of anything else to do. To him it has always been this simple: Derek wants him, he wants Derek, and they’ll make it work however they can.

“Okay,” Stiles says. “I can do that.”

Derek hums, either in agreement or acknowledgement, Stiles isn’t sure which.

Derek restarts the jeep and they arrive at the apartment seven minutes later. Stiles grabs his phone from the glove compartment, his shirt, and the towels. Cold rain pelts his skin as they race up the stairs and into the safety of the apartment. While Stiles retrieves another towel from the bathroom to dry off with, Derek disappears into his room and returns in fresh clothes with a tee-shirt and sweatpants for Stiles to borrow. Fortunately, the spare sweatpants have a drawstring so they don’t fall off his skinny-ass hips when he puts them on in the bathroom.

Derek takes a seat on the couch. “Do you want to hang around for a little longer? I mean, there’s not much to do with the power still out. You could just head home.”

Stiles shrugs. He can’t tell if that was a subtle, polite way to ask for some space or not. “Yeah, I can hang around for a bit.” Truthfully, he isn’t in too much of a hurry to leave Derek’s side, not after his confession. Stiles sets his phone on the coffee table, beside Derek’s long forgotten soda, and places his hands on Derek’s shoulders to ease him back.

“Things happen on my say, right?” he asks. He’s mindful of the quiet gloom in the apartment and keeps his voice soft.

Derek’s eyes flick to Isaac’s door.

Stiles snorts. “Relax. I just want to lay down. That alright?”

Derek narrows his eyes like he’s trying to see inside Stiles’ head for the truth. Which shouldn’t be necessary considering he has the ability to detect lies through heart beats. Stupid. In the end, Derek obeys and lounges along the couch. Stiles climbs on top of him, careful not to knee Derek in any sensitive areas or hurt himself. It’s super fucking weird, to be honest. He’s lying between Derek’s legs and on top of his chest, head tucked beneath his chin. It’s uncomfortably intimate. It’s awesome.

Some of Stiles’ anxiety ebbs when Derek’s arms drape around his back.

Exhaustion sweeps over him. It’s been an emotional rollercoaster of a day between the Trúma, the kiss and the conversation in the car. He falls asleep with his cheek pressed against Derek’s clavicle.

***

Stiles and Derek never discussed sleeping over. And by never discussed, Stiles means they happily dismissed the topic completely because they were too caught up in their shit to communicate like normal people.

Technically, Stiles has already slept over when he was injured, but things are different now—the context is different. He wouldn’t know what he would do with himself if he slept over. Probably try to get some sleep by imagining Derek’s beta form chasing sheep over a fence. Or possibly think about sex and Derek and then wonder why he thought that was a good idea around people with superhuman senses. So the usual—something awkward or strange.

And that’s why when Stiles wakes up past eight o’clock, he heads over to Scott’s. It’s only because Derek is asleep that Stiles has the confidence to quickly kiss him goodbye.

***

“Wish I could’ve seen that,” Scott says after Stiles relays the story about the Trúma.

“Derek did his eye thing while he was driving,” Stiles says. He leans back in Scott’s computer chair at a dangerous angle. “I think that’s how he tracked it. We might be able to catch it before it leaves town.”

Scott gets up from his bed and looks at the darkening sky outside his window. A few lingering patches of setting sunlight manage to peek through the thinner clouds. Scott’s gold eyes squint. “I think I can see something. It’s like a path of invisible lightning. Maybe that’s it?”

“Maybe?” Stiles sure as hell doesn’t know. He doesn’t have supernatural vision. “Do you want to give tracking it a shot?”

Scott beams at him. They grab some flashlights and wave goodbye to Melissa as they head out the door. Against his protective instincts, Stiles suggests they take the jeep. His poor baby has been through enough abuse today, but it’s more durable than Scott’s mom’s car. At least his jeep will be in his hands this time.

Stiles is, once again, assaulted by rain before he ducks into the jeep.

As soon as Scott slides in beside him, Scott’s nose wrinkles and the corners of his mouth pull down in a sort of perplexed grimace. “It smells weird in here.”

Stiles pauses. “Like mud?” Scott shakes his head. Stiles thinks about his epic make-out session with Derek. Oops. Maybe he should start storing cans of air freshener in his jeep. Just in case. “Like broken wet dreams? I almost got my hand down Derek’s pants earlier. I was _this_ close.” He sighs, theatrical and forlorn. He leaves out how he’s kind of happy he didn’t succeed since that would’ve caused Derek some unnecessary guilt. The poor man has enough of that already.

Scott’s face pinches in disgust. “Urgh. That must be it. And—um—I’m proud of you?”

Stiles snorts and starts the jeep.

***

It turns out that either Derek had a stroke of luck tracking the Trúma or it let itself be caught because it’s a fucking menace to stay on top of. The invisible trail in the sky seems to be doing some impossible acrobatics, turning at right angles or suddenly barreling backwards to thwart their chase. Eventually, they spot it land at the southern edge of the Preserve, which they’ve passed _three times_. What Stiles thought was going to be a relatively short outing grew into two hours.

And then it disappears into the Preserve. Of course it does. It’s too dark to see the entrance to the road Derek took, so they’ll have to chase it on foot.

Scott grabs Stiles’ arm as he starts unbuckling his seatbelt. He’s grinning. “Hey, let’s call it a night. I saw it.” He flashes his eyes. “Night vision and all that.”

Stiles flops back against his seat with a groan. “Thank fuck for that. Damn that was annoying.”

They head back. Stiles has to fill up on gas. Fucking beautiful, pain in the ass, roadrunner.

The grin on Scott’s face lingers for the rest of the night, until he falls asleep and it smoothes away. Stiles is on the air mattress he set up by Scott’s bed. He stares at the ceiling before texting Derek: _man you have some skills. chased the Truma for ages._

Derek’s response is almost immediate: _thought something strange was happening. have to know how to predict where itll land._

Well, Derek could’ve told him that earlier.

Stiles rolls over on his side, turning away from Scott so he can shield the light of his phone. He sends: _thanks for the tip, ass_

It takes a moment for him to realize there’s an innuendo in there. He could smother himself with his pillow. Hopefully, Derek won’t notice it.

_It’s like you don’t know how to switch off._ Damn. No such luck.

Stiles stares at his screen. The opening is too easy to resist: _I guess that means I’m turned on all the time_.

Derek sends _: you’re dead to me_. _stop talking and get some sleep_

And because Derek is right about Stiles not knowing when to quit, he types: _goodnight. I’ll be thinking fondly of your dick._

Derek’s response is almost instant: _I miss the days when you could just hang up on people_

Stiles laughs, quick and pleased. He cuts it short at the sound of Scott’s blankets rustling and some agitated mumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Canonical character death refers to Stiles' mother.) 
> 
> Drat. I really wanted to finish this before the hiatus ended. I'm halfway done. Thought I'd post a teaser before the season 4 premier. It took a month to make it halfway through, so I expect this will be completed before the end of July (at the very latest, by the middle of August--I've got an online class that may cause a bit of delay). I'll update every two weeks until I finish (and then I'll post the whole thing). Enjoy. And thanks for reading. :) More tags will be added.


	3. EMPATHY

Obviously, Stiles isn’t a werewolf. This fact really goes without saying. So he doesn’t have heightened senses—sight, smell, taste, touch, hearing—or possess the theoretical ‘sixth’ sense—the five basics applied to the supernatural. Besides his powers of observation and his freakish empathy, all of his senses are nothing out of the ordinary. But he is a human and, despite this frequently forgotten fact, humans _are_ animals with instincts.

Those instincts flare to life the moment Stiles wakes up and blinks at the morning’s too dull light reflecting off of Scott’s ceiling. He’s overwhelmed by sickening, oppressive dread. It’s worse than a panic attack. Panic attacks are sudden, bursting episodes of too much _everything_ —emotions, thoughts, and stimuli—but this climbing dread has the anticipation of an announcement, a single point of arrival. His head throbs. His heart races.

It’s still raining. The intensity of the rainfall isn’t as strong as yesterday, but the clouds completely blanket the sky. They’re darker, more imposing. Lightning flashes with more regularity and thunder rumbles with barely any pause. Derek said that the Trúma wouldn’t stick around for long, but it seems that it has.

Hopefully, he and Scott didn’t piss it off by chasing it.

Scott is turned on his side, facing the window. He must hear that Stiles is awake because he mutters, “Something doesn’t feel right.”

Stiles gets up from the air mattress and approaches the window to get a better look. The wind is harsher too. Leaves and branches flail in the current. Any loose debris skitters across the road and gets swept into the whirlwind.

He turns to retrieve his phone from the air mattress so he can text Derek, but startles at the sight of Scott’s golden eyes.

“Dude, you okay?” Stiles asks.

Scott shakes his head. “I can’t shift my eyes back to normal for some reason.”

Well, that’s not a good sign.

“Alright.” Stiles exhales a shuddering breath. No need to panic yet. “Alright then. So what do your elf eyes see?”

Scott doesn’t smile. And if Stiles wasn’t anxious before, he sure is now. “The invisible lightning path is gone. There’s something else. White shapes. I’ve complained about them before but now they’re worse.”

The building dread expands like an enormous soap bubble, ready to pop at the slightest change in the air. Stiles has a hunch that this isn’t the Trúma at all. He sits back down on the air mattress to text Derek but he already has a message from him: _dont go outside. i mean it._ Message timed eleven minutes ago.

Stiles bites his lip. He can’t listen to that order but he can’t disobey either, not without a severe risk to his place in the pack.

He texts: _I won’t as long as you tell me you’re not doing something alone._

No response.

_Derek?_

That fucking moron. “Scott, find out where Isaac and Boyd are. I’ll text Erica, Jackson, and Peter.”

Scott’s fingers quickly work over his phone. “Isaac is at the apartment. Boyd is at his mom’s.”

Erica replies: _@ home y_

And Jackson says: _Lyd’s. Fuck off._

Peter doesn’t respond. Not really surprising.

Stiles has too many hunches and all of them amount to nothing good. Derek is either alone or with Peter, and Stiles isn’t sure which scenario is worse. Something happened to the Trúma and the backlash of that event is tearing up the town.

The last time Stiles pulled something dangerous, Derek made an ultimatum, but he left a loophole; if Stiles were to repeat the incident with the Maroosh, then he’d get bounced. This won’t be a repeat. He plans to have three werewolves for back up this time. Plus, he told Derek to start relying on more than just Peter and to not work alone. By the looks of things, Derek went back on his word too, so they’ll both be guilty.

Stiles gets dressed and instructs Scott to do the same. “I’ll drop by Derek’s to get Isaac and Lydia’s to get Jackson. I’d get Erica and Boyd but I don’t know where Boyd lives and Erica is too out of the way for the areas I want to check out.” He pulls on his socks and grabs an extra jacket from Scott’s floor. “I could call them, but they’d have to run around alone and I don’t want their punishment doubled.”

Scott shakes his head, but there’s a small smile on his face. “I don’t know how much longer Derek is going to put up with you. He’s going to _kill_ you—or I should say ‘us’—for disobeying. _Again_. Not that I’m complaining.”

They head out.

***

It takes minimal effort to persuade Isaac to get into the car. Jackson is another story.

Fortunately, it’s Lydia who opens her door and lets Stiles and Isaac inside. Scott stays in the jeep. With his eyes all flashy and aggressive, Jackson wouldn’t even _pretend_ to cooperate in Scott’s presence.

Jackson stubbornly refuses to get up from the couch in Lydia’s den. His feet are propped up on the white, wooden edge of the coffee table and he’s only wearing black pajama bottoms.

“Did Derek send you?” he asks.

Stiles glowers. “No.”

“Then.” Jackson waves his hand at the door. He doesn’t even have the decency to verbally tell them to get out.

Jackson yawns and switches on the TV. The weather must be interfering with the satellite because the picture glitches and the sound stutters. He shuts it off, sneering. Lydia stares intently at his feet until he removes them from the coffee table. There goes the smoothness of his superior, nonchalant façade. Ha.

“Please,” Stiles sighs. “I don’t have time for you to act like a fucking pig-headed jackass. I need you to cooperate for once in your life.”

Jackson bares his teeth in a feral grin. “And I don’t have time to listen to a self-righteous dickhead. Looks like we’re both busy. Come back never.”

Stiles clenches his jaw. This is one of the few times he wouldn’t mind being a werewolf and at least have a chance at dragging Jackson out by the _detached_ _scruff of his neck_. “Have you taken a look outside lately?” Stiles asks, laughing and scoffing at once. He does his best to hide his exasperation. Getting frazzled is a victory for Jackson and would only fuel his obstinance.

Stiles turns a helpless look on Lydia. If anyone is willing to listen to reason, it would be her. But Lydia’s face is impassive, almost stony. She seems to be calculating the conversation and willing to let things fall wherever they fall. Her stance is clear; she’s a spectator not a contender.

Stiles continues. “‘Something Wicked This Way Comes’ is flashing in the sky and I think Derek went to investigate with Peter. He isn’t answering his phone. Neither of them are. You remember the Maroosh, don’t you? Ever wonder how that would’ve turned out if we chose to listen to Peter over me? Well, let’s just sit here and find out.”

Jackson’s attention catches on Peter’s name. His head cocks to the side, the way a cat’s does when it hears a bird chirp. But the interest is short-lived. “Derek said to stay. He never said that anything was wrong. You’re getting your nuts in a twist over your own imagination.”

That’s possibly the least hostile sentence Jackson has ever said to Stiles.

“Come on, Jackson,” Isaac growls. Even he looks annoyed by how slowly the proceedings are going and he’s usually content to keep as far away from confrontation as possible.

Jackson’s mouth twists. “Shut _up_ , Lahey.”

Seriously. Maybe Stiles should’ve gone to Erica even though she’s further away. He could trust her to jump to his aid when he needed it—ah. Now there’s an idea.

“You know, the only reason I came here at all was because Lydia’s house is closer than the others’.” Stiles frowns and shrugs. He sighs and backs towards the door, a gesture implying that he’s ready to leave. “I shouldn’t have wasted my time on you. I should’ve gone to Erica’s or Boyd’s instead. They’re,” Stiles purses his lips and narrows his eyes, wincing like he doesn’t mean to be offensive, “well, they’re—you know— _actually_ reliable and stable. You’re kind of just a bench warmer in this club.”

Contempt has the effect of putting all these creases and wrinkles in Jackson’s face. His impression of a snarling bulldog is spot on.

“That is the saddest excuse of reverse psychology anyone has ever used on me,” Jackson says.

“Is it working?”

“Kind of.”

Stiles hides his triumph by pushing his smile away. “I can boil it down for you. You can stay here and be useless or you can come with us to help Derek, our _alpha_.”

Jackson’s eyes flash blue. He briefly glances at Lydia. Whatever he gets from her, it isn’t what he wants. He grits his teeth for a minute. “You’re one manipulative, little shithead,” he snaps. “I think Derek only likes you because you remind him of Peter.”

Oh, it is so fucking hard to let that go. Stiles could make so many cracks about projection and daddy issues, but he won’t. Not because he’s being ‘the better person’ or because he values his life. It’s just that any one of those remarks would undo this small victory and he would be too lazy to try to smooth things over once Jackson retracted his compliance.

Jackson flounces off the couch and heads upstairs, presumably to get dressed. Here’s to hoping that doesn’t take an eternity.

“Grab my bag. You know the one,” Lydia says. She doesn’t yell. Of course, with werewolf hearing, she doesn’t need to. She turns a sly, pleased smile on Stiles and pulls her phone out of an invisible pocket in her skirt. She taps the edge of the case against her lips before she starts typing.

Stiles’ phone buzzes. One unread message from Lydia Goddess Martin.

It says: _You’re learning. If I’m the only one who makes him listen, he’ll never cooperate with you when he needs to._

So that was a test. Stiles gives Lydia a small nod.

Jackson returns in jeans, a pretentious polo shirt, and his letterman jacket. He has a blue purse, a pink leather jacket, and a pair of new, dainty work boots in hand.

“Lydia—” Stiles starts.

Her eyes go sharp and wide at once. Every muscle stills with the sudden alertness of a feline predator ready to pounce. “I know you’re not going to say something condescending like I’m not allowed to come.”

Stiles cringes.

“It could be dangerous,” Isaac argues. Big mistake. One does not simply argue with Lydia Martin.

Lydia blinks. She takes the purse from Jackson’s hand and extracts what looks like a perfume bottle with transparent, muddy blue liquid. “If I threw this, Stiles and I would be the only ones left standing.”

Isaac’s gulp is nearly audible. Jackson inspects the hem of his jacket. He’s probably impervious to her threats by now.

She slips into her jacket, flips her hair over her shoulders, and bends to put on her shoes. “My mom always said I should get a hobby, so I’ve started collecting old books on the occult. Legit ones. I’ve learned quite a bit about potions and supernatural poisons.”

Lydia taps her feet against the sleek, wood flooring of the den, testing the comfort of her shoes. Her eyes flick up through her lashes and pin Stiles to the floor. “I’m _invaluable_ ,” she says, like she’s daring someone to contradict her.  

No one does.

“Okay.” Stiles claps his hands together. “All aboard the bus.”

***

Stiles doesn’t have an exact location in mind as he’s driving. He figured he’d loop around the Preserve and search for the Camaro. As if to prove that Stiles is unbearably incompetent, Jackson tries texting Derek, like Stiles somehow did it incorrectly when he tried. Fucking moron. It’s really to no one’s surprise that nothing happens.

Scott rolls his eyes (which have finally settled to the dark brown they should be). Stiles gives him a look that says ‘right there with you, brother.’

“Message fucking failed _again_. Beacon Hills needs a better cell tower.” Jackson stuffs his phone in his pocket and glares at Stiles’ cup holder.

A dead zone. And just like that, Stiles knows where to go. At least, he thinks he does. There’s only one supernatural dead zone that he can think of.

***

When he reaches the Preserve’s southern edge, he spots the Camaro near the entrance of the off-roading trail. He takes the turn as gently as he can. The transition from the steep incline that separates the road from the forest to the relatively flat trail bounces everyone in the back seat.

Heavy rain droplets splatter against the windshield. There’s a loud crack of thunder, but the forest blots out the preceding flash of lightning. They have no way of knowing how close the strike was. And with an extra day’s worth of rain, the road is even more slippery. What a fabulous death trap this turned out to be.

But like a trooper, Stiles’ jeep perseveres. A few times, he heads down a deceptive, clear area only to meet a dead end. And then he has to go through the terrifying process of backing up. Eventually, he gets back on track and starts recognizing landmarks.

“So,” he says, glancing at Lydia through his rearview mirror. “How did your mom react when you told her you were exploring the possibilities of witchcraft and wizardry?”

Lydia pulls her attention away from the window. “She thought I joined a cult.”

Scott frowns. “Um. That’s not good?”

Jackson stares at Scott with an expression that says, ‘farts have more brain cells than you.’

Lydia shrugs. “I told her I’d never _join_ a cult. I started one. She was much more supportive then.”

Stiles has never really thought about it before, but now he wonders about the people who raised Lydia.

After a few more bends in the path, they spot Derek and Peter through the trees. They’re at the enormous tree stump Stiles noticed when he and Derek first traveled this road. He continues a little ways, until Derek and Peter are in plain sight, and stops the jeep. He steps out. The others follow suit.

Stiles wipes rain out of his eyes as he approaches the tree stump. Water seeps into his jeans and mud clings to his sneakers. Derek doesn’t glance at them, but it’s clear that he knows they’re there by the clenched fists at his sides and the rigid set of his shoulders. Peter looks back at them though. The usual conceited air that colors Peter’s movements and tone is gone. There’s something like a time-sensitive patience about him, a tolerance of their presence hinging on the promise that they disappear. Stiles remembers seeing that look on Derek’s face when they first met, when Derek said, ‘this is private property.’

Stiles can place that look now. It’s territorial. This is Hale property and Stiles, Scott, Lydia, Jackson, and Isaac aren’t Hales. They aren’t pack.

“Something smells dead,” Jackson says.

And that’s when Stiles notices it—the thin rivulets of blue liquid running off the tree stump and creating whirls in the mud. He ignores the quick flash of blue in Peter’s eyes when he quickly stumbles to Derek’s side. Now Stiles can see the flat surface of the stump.

“ _I fucking said to stay inside_.” Derek doesn’t shout, but there’s a cold fury in voice that’s just as effective, just as baleful and striking. Or it would be if Stiles were paying attention to him and not what’s lying on the stump.

The Trúma has been totally dismembered.

The turquoise light in its eyes is gone. The gaping space in its straw poncho reveals spindly, human-like arms coated in small black feathers with talons for fingernails. But the arms aren’t attached to the body. Both have been ripped clean off. Stiles can see the ball of the humerus bone and the empty holes of its shoulder sockets. Like the poncho, the flesh of its abdomen is left gaping. Shiny, blue-black organs spill out of the deep gash.

No words come to mind. There’s just a blazing hot storm of white noise. Stiles didn’t know the thing—he barely knew anything _about_ it—but there’s a type of grief that overtakes people when they witness the loss of something beautiful and innocent or something that gave them a pleasant memory. And because he just learned about the Trúma, saw it just yesterday, it feels like he’s looking at a kitten’s corpse—something young. Heat pools in his eyes.

Stiles looks to Derek’s face. He’s still furious—mouth turned down and taut, jaw clenched so tight that a muscle in his cheek spasms, red eyes shuttered and hateful—but Stiles doesn’t care. He just feels hopelessly sad.

There’s too much gore. He knows the Trúma’s legs are in a similar state to the arms but he can’t bear to look at them. In his mind, he sees his mother’s legs, bent and broken.

He can’t breathe.

He tries to inhale, but there’s too much weight. His lungs are too small—they can’t take the pressure of more air. There’s too much gore—too much blood. Too much everything. He panics. Oh God, he feels so fucking sick.

Both of Stiles’ hands grasp Derek’s arm for stability. An anchor. His grip would be painfully tight to a human. He doesn’t know what it feels like to Derek.

He still can’t breathe—can’t unsee the image of his mom on the pavement. Can’t separate the feelings. He gags. He lets go of Derek and twists away from him and the mess on the stump.

“Hunters?” Isaac asks. His voice is far, far away.                                    

“Why here though?” Jackson.

“Not just that, why like this? Allison told me that cutting a body in half is typical of a hunter’s kill, but this is incomplete. And what’s with these amputations? If you can even call them that. This is more ritualistic than a conquest.” Lydia.

“I agree.” Peter.

“Stiles— _Stiles_. You okay?” Scott.

“Stiles, _stop_ it.” Derek.

Stiles feels Derek’s fingertips pressing hard into his shoulders. It brings him back a little. He can feel the rain on his skin. At some point it stopped—or it seemed like it did. His vision sharpens. The nerves in his hands vibrate from the adrenaline overload.

“Hey,” Derek says in Stiles’ ear. Derek’s fury has been replaced by something quiet and calm. “Enough, okay? Don’t think about it. It’s one more death. It’s done. Don’t think about it.”

Stiles’ lungs won’t let him laugh but he tries. He chokes on his own vocal chords. How can he stop thinking about _that_?

“No,” Derek says. One hand leaves Stiles’ shoulder and covers his forehead. His skin absorbs Derek’s heat. “Stop thinking about it. It’s done. It’s gone. It’s over.”

“Yeah. Okay,” Stiles gasps.

He looks at the others gathered around the stump. Lydia grips Jackson’s hand and they ease away from Peter. This is the first time Lydia has had to confront Peter since—since what he did. Isaac stands between everything, not quite apart but not involved in the complicated relationships around him. He’s disconnected. Derek and Scott are by Stiles’ side. Scott is worried, tense, and uncertain. And Derek’s eyes are green, blank, and downcast. Erica and Boyd aren’t even here. The pack has never felt more divided.

Stiles knows it’s the aftereffects of the panic attack, but it feels like everyone is staring at him. It’s so stupid. Normally, he doesn’t care about being stared at or judged. But it’s different after a panic attack. He can’t stand any attention then.

Scott gives Stiles a slow, encouraging smile, but Stiles can’t share it. He can’t reach out to Scott now. It’s nothing against him—he loves Scott. He really does. They have each other’s backs for everything. But there are some places Scott can’t go and Stiles is sure the reverse is true. Because of his father, Scott knows loss and abandonment, but he doesn’t really know death. He can’t understand it the way Derek does. And that’s why, in this moment, Stiles wants to stick to Derek’s side.

Stiles doesn’t cling to Derek, but it’s a near thing. He steps into Derek’s personal space, probably closer than he should. Derek doesn’t push him away, so Stiles figures he’s welcome.

“I’m not happy you disobeyed me again. I want all of you out of here as soon as possible,” Derek says.

Lydia and Jackson don’t need telling twice. They happily retreat back inside the jeep, away from Peter. Isaac follows at a distance. Derek turns to Stiles and Scott. “I’ve been lenient with you in the past, but I won’t be now.”

Dammit—Derek is lapsing back into old habits, all demands and no compromise.

“But Derek—” Stiles starts.

“You really don’t want to fucking test me right now.”

“I think Lydia is right,” Peter interrupts. His glowing blue eyes are glued to the tree stump. “The Nemeton has a pulse. It’s active again.”

Derek twists away from Stiles to stare at the stump. “ _Fuck_.”

So this all means something to them. They have information and they’re not sharing. _Again_. His position in the pack be damned, Stiles opens his mouth to argue but Derek beats him to it.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek groans, fed up and impatient. “Go _home_. I’ll call a pack meeting later.” And then he blindsides Stiles by cupping his hands behind Stiles’ skull and pressing their foreheads together. “I didn’t forget what we talked about. I promise.”

Derek releases him. Stiles is amazed that he doesn’t stagger backwards. For once, he and Scott surrender to Derek’s bossiness and head toward the jeep.

Derek calls after them, “Scott. I don’t want him driving. Take his keys.”

Stiles stops in his tracks and gapes at Derek. Fuck that—Derek doesn’t have the right to baby him or decide what he can and can’t do. He turns an incredulous scoff on Scott but there’s only apologetic sympathy there. He actually _listens_ and fishes Stiles’ keys out of his pocket. Really? Now Scott decides to be Derek’s perfect little soldier when he’s being a domineering jackass? What the fuck?

Stiles throws himself into the passenger side and slams the door. He doesn’t look at anyone.

“No need to throw a hissy fit,” Jackson says.

Holy shit Stiles is going to mug Lydia for her purse and drench Jackson in wolfsbane perfume. He swears he will. He can’t put up with Jackson’s bullshit anymore.

“As sweet as that display was,” Lydia adds. “Derek was testing your reflexes. You failed. I’m glad you’re not driving, so stop sulking.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything—he can’t _think_ of anything to say. He doesn’t really have a crush on Lydia anymore but being tag teamed by her _and_ Jackson still stings more than it should.

What pisses him off is they’re right. His nerves ring like a tuning fork. He’s too overwhelmed by emotional byproducts—the emotions that fucked him up in the first place have passed, but there’s something left over. Chemicals or whatever.

“Your heart is going a million miles a minute, dude,” Scott whispers.

Stiles breathes and closes his eyes. “I know.”   

***

They have a pack meeting a few hours later and Stiles discovers, once again, that he was right: it never pays to be optimistic when the supernatural is involved. Being right isn’t always satisfying.

Peter explains that the Nemeton is the epicenter of Beacon Hills. Once upon a time, this was a supernatural sanctuary of sorts, where faeries, shape shifters, and the otherwise magically inclined flocked. The Nemeton is what attracted Mimi eons ago. It’s what attracted Derek and Peter’s ancestors, the first Hales. Recently, the Nemeton has been spitting out sparks of energy and that’s what attracted the Maroosh, the bottom feeders of the fae. It’s what attracted the Trúma.

As the human population expanded into their territory, the Hales cut the tree in order to protect both sides—the supernatural from invading hunters, and regular people from things like the Maroosh. But now that the Nemeton is active, it’s a beacon again. All creatures big and small are coming. And with them, the hunters that stay on their tail.

So lots of doom and gloom shit.

“So what the hell are we supposed to do?” Erica asks. She’s in Stiles’ usual spot—on the end of the couch closest to the door. Stiles sits beside her and Scott sits on his other side. Lydia and Jackson take the opposite end of the couch.

Erica’s already large eyes are impossibly wide and owlish, overwhelmed by responsibility. It’s a look that Stiles can empathize with. By the pinched and worried expressions on Scott, Isaac, Boyd, Lydia, and even Jackson’s faces, it’s a mutually felt burden.

Derek sighs. He’s sitting in the armchair by the TV, bent forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped together under his chin. He seems so tired. Out of everyone overburdened with responsibility, Stiles thinks Derek has it the worst. “Honestly? We wait it out. Without the full tree, it can’t attract as much as it did in the past. If hunters come, we keep a low profile and hope that they take care of whatever invades our territory and move on. If we get something benevolent, which happens _all_ the time, we can grant asylum.”

“And for anything in between?” Isaac asks from his spot on the floor, by the end of the couch opposite Erica. “If we get a fucking Freddy Krueger and no hunter comes to take care of it for us?”

Peter rolls his eyes and exhales one bored, exasperated breath. “Then we defend. _Obviously_.” He stands apart from everyone, in the corner between the bathroom and the kitchenette.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Boyd mumbles. Erica reaches down and grips his shoulder.

“Like I said, we just carry on as usual,” Derek says. “Stressing out won’t help. I’m not saying let your guard down, but keeping yourself on high alert all the time will drain you quickly. We can’t predict what’s coming but we can prepare for it. I’ve _been_ preparing you for the chance of attack by teaching you control, how to fight, how to gauge your environment, and how to sense your fellow pack mates to regroup.”

Which are all lovely skills for the _werewolves_. Stiles hopes his unimpressed stare communicates how he doesn’t have _any_ of those abilities and that leaves him rather vulnerable. Derek glances at him and frowns.

“And for anyone who feels unsafe and wants security, my door is always open. I’ll try to give you whatever you need.”

That draws a smile out of Stiles. He’s glad to see a delicate touch from Derek for once, and it has a positive impact on the others. Their shoulders lose some of their tension. Even Stiles feels a little reassured. Granted, he knows that using Derek as a shield isn’t really a practical, long term solution, but the option is nice to have.

Everyone is dismissed. Except for Stiles. Derek requests that he stay.

Jackson and Lydia leave together. Isaac grabs Derek’s keys and offers to drop Scott off with Erica and Boyd. Scott lingers by the door, shooting uneasy glances between Stiles and Derek. Stiles doesn’t blame him; he’s worried too. He doesn’t think he’s about to get chewed out, otherwise Derek probably would’ve asked Scott to stay because he was just as insubordinate. Oh well. Not much they can do about it. Stiles waves Scott out and tries to express that he’ll be fine whatever happens.

And so it’s just Stiles, Derek, and Peter left in the apartment.

Derek moves from the armchair to sit beside Stiles. But before he addresses whatever his issue is, he looks to Peter. “Could you leave us alone for a while?”

Peter blinks slowly. “After the day we’ve had, you want a quickie with your little boyfriend?”

Red bleeds into Derek’s eyes. “We need to talk and I don’t want an audience.”

“Talk,” Peter repeats and stares as he considers the idea. “Oh God, you’re really that boring.”

“Like you said, it’s been a long day.” Derek does this weird grimacing smile. Stiles doesn’t know how he pulls that off. “So you don’t want to push your luck. I don’t have the patience or the energy right now.”

And that doesn’t bode well for Stiles. He really doesn’t want to argue with Derek if his short fuse is already burnt out.

“Neither do I,” Peter says. He mirrors Derek’s eerie smile perfectly. “Which is why, for once, I’m not going to give you a hard time.”

Peter leaves without any theatrics. (And thus the apocalypse began.) Stiles and Derek sit in silence, waiting for the moment Peter passes out of hearing range.

After a few minutes, Derek suddenly closes his eyes and slumps back against the armrest. “I could honestly skin you alive.”

Stiles winces. “You weren’t answering your phone so I got worried?”

Derek’s sigh is guttural and would be more closely related to a groan if his exhaustion and exasperation weren’t audible. He rubs his hands up his face, stretching the skin around his tired eyes. “So I guess I get to do the thing where I try to protect you by wasting my breath?”

Now it’s Stiles’ turn to sigh. “Derek. I can’t just sit around and do nothing. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

Derek’s gaze is unyielding. “Yes, it is. And that’s exactly what you’re going to do.” Stiles opens his mouth to protest but Derek cuts him off. “ _No_. You don’t get it. This is worse than the Argents. This is worse than the Maroosh. I don’t want you near any of it.”

Stiles’ heart goes cold and sinks to the pit of his stomach. He covers up the devastating feeling by releasing one derisive bark of laughter. “So you _are_ kicking me out then?”

To his relief, Derek rolls his eyes the way he does when he thinks Stiles is being particularly idiotic. “No. This is just—this is just what happens to humans most of the time. It’s what happened with the humans in my family when the level of danger competed with their ability to handle it. We kept them out of sight until the danger passed.”

“And if you need someone to lay down a mountain ash barrier?” Stiles presses. He won’t be safe in a cage. Things are rarely that simple. After all, look what happened to Derek’s family. The werewolves and the humans died together. Hiding doesn’t guarantee anything. “If you need research? If you need a quick plan during a fight? If you need a human diplomat in a pinch? What then?”

And because Derek is a werewolf with the temperament of a fucking mule, he sets his jaw and lifts his chin. “Then we find an alternative.”

“Who? Deaton?” Stiles snorts and bounces his head back against the cushion behind him. “He’s usually too busy claiming Switzerland and will stay out of it. You know that. There’s no one else except for Lydia, but she’s in the same boat as me.” On the other hand, she kind of isn’t, now that she’s gathering a small, magical library. Something tells him that crusty tomes written by ancient tree huggers are probably more reliable than Wikipedia or werewolfzrule.org.

“Come here,” Derek murmurs. Even with his voice soft, there’s no mistaking that for anything but a command.

Derek motions to the seat beside him, face pained and fierce. Stiles scoots closer because—well, _because_. When Derek wears that face, Stiles is absolutely powerless. Once he’s close enough, Derek places his fingertips on the left side of Stiles’ face, on top of his five most prominent moles.

It’s so fucking sentimental that Stiles doesn’t know what to do with himself. All of his resistance disintegrates. If he were in Derek’s shoes, he’d be cracking a joke, lightening the mood, doing anything he could to guard how he really felt. But not Derek. In the face of something life-threatening, Derek can’t tell a single lie. He strips everything away and it’s so disarming that Stiles can’t help but respond with the same honesty.

“I don’t want you to die,” Derek says.

Fuck. No. Derek can’t do that to him. That’s cheating. Derek’s eyes are so clear. Stiles can see every strand of color.

The moment is ruined by a series of buzzes from Stiles’ phone. That must be like five texts. Derek pulls his hand away. Stiles glances between his pocket and Derek’s face. Eyebrows raised, Derek inclines his head, granting permission to put the conversation on pause. Stiles checks his phone.

The first message is from Lydia: _let’s have a study session with my new treasures. You’re going to read all of them. I’m not lending them out because they’re worth more than your life so take notes_.

The next is Jackson: _Ur crazy if u think im leaving Lyd alone with u. Ill b around when ur around._

Lydia: _Ignore Jackson. You know how peacocks are. They’re pretty on the outside but they screech like the mutant offspring of a donkey and a clown car’s horn. You should be smart enough to know that I’m saying he’s stupid. Anyway. You’re coming over next Wednesday with Erica. We have other plans for you. Best to kill two birds with one stone._

A Stiles from an alternative universe is cursing his good fortune and thinking fondly of threesomes. However, _he_ knows better. Lydia will probably have a spreadsheet on websites to consult for advice on oral and anal sex. Clinical websites with diagrams and no smiling. Erica will probably get him drunk and make him send a dick pic to Derek. Right. So he’ll be saying ‘no’ to the kool-aid.

He’d like to think he’s being a self-centered asshole by jumping to sex, but who’s he kidding? He and Derek are like two class pets Lydia and Erica are trying to breed. Which is as disturbing as it is accurate.

The next message is from Boyd: _hey might b a good idea 2 do the training thing b4 school starts how bout on sunday @ 12_.

The last one is Scott: _worried about u. we should go running & build up ur endurance_. _How about Friday?_

“What is it? You’re smiling,” Derek says.

Stiles hands over his phone and watches the corners of Derek’s mouth twitch.

Stiles flicks Derek’s ear. “I think your betas have a better idea than hiding me in an ivory tower.”

The almost-smile falls from Derek’s face. “I don’t like it, but I’ll go ahead and agree so that when you do whatever the hell you want—which is always—it’ll look like you’re doing it with my permission.”

“See? Isn’t compromise a beautiful thing?”

By the tight, displeased look on Derek’s face, he disagrees from the bottom of his heart.

“You’re the one who said we should go on as normal,” Stiles says lightly. “You’re the one who’s freaking out.”

Derek glowers. “For your own good.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles rolls his eyes and bumps his hip against Derek’s. “So I’ve got plans with everyone but you so far. When’s the next time I can come over?”

Derek’s focus dims as he considers the question. His mind must be running through his work schedule. He slides a hand up Stiles’ neck and through the hair on the back of his head. Stiles knows Derek isn’t even paying attention, probably doesn’t even realize what he did. But Stiles doesn’t mind. It’s nice to be touched. Derek is always so careful about the contact he initiates, and after their conversation yesterday, the reason makes sense. It’s like Stiles has all the puzzle pieces now and can bridge the gaps that kept them from moving forward.

Stiles refuses to feel guilty over wanting Derek. He won’t accept it. The guilt isn’t his and the guilt isn’t Derek’s. It’s Kate’s. Stiles won’t allow that psycho to control his feelings.

He’s going to do his best to ignore what Derek told him about Kate. Well, to a degree. He isn’t going to do something that resonates with the consequences of that evil bitch’s actions, but he doesn’t want to dwell too much on what she did because he’ll start walking on eggshells. That’s the last thing Derek would want—he’d tear Stiles a new asshole with his claws if Stiles began treating him with kid gloves.

“My next night off is Monday,” Derek says.

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Monday? Why is your schedule so weird?”

Derek shrugs. “I take as many weird hours as I can so that when you guys go back to school, people will owe me and I can take Saturday or Sunday off with few complaints.”

“Huh.” Stiles rocks back against the couch. He’s a little impressed. “I’m surprised by your forethought. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Thanks for the flowery insult.”

Stiles grins and pokes Derek in the rib. He doesn’t even flinch. “You have to admit, it’s kind of fair.”

“Whatever,” Derek grunts. “Anyway. We’ll probably end up doing what we always do. Sorry if that’s boring.”

He should’ve known honesty was going to bite him in the ass. “I told you, it’s fine. I’m mostly here for the company.”

Derek arches an eyebrow. “Mostly?”

“The view is nice too.”

“God, you’re embarrassing.”

“I try.” Stiles laughs, but it isn’t really sincere. This is the kind of chit-chat that’s biding time before introducing the elephant in the room.

“Are you okay? With the Trúma.” Derek’s eyes are on the TV’s black screen, but Stiles has the sneaking suspicion that Derek is watching him either through his peripheral vision or through their fuzzy reflection on the TV.

And there it is—Derek doesn’t waste time. Stiles wasn’t given any time to mentally prepare. No, he isn’t really ‘okay’ with the Trúma. Once again, the supernatural world proves to be predictably tragic. The Trúma’s death won’t get a prolonged period of mourning, but it will keep him up at night for a while. Right now, he feels the childish urge to say, ‘it’s not fair.’ Because it isn’t. Death is never fucking fair.

And it’s funny the way Derek asks, like that was a statement that needed to be said for procedure’s sake.

Strategized conversation is Stiles’ domain so it’s easy to identify when someone’s trying to manipulate him or when they’re saying one thing but talking about another. He’s good at mind games. He isn’t really an adept liar but he’s good at mislaying information, which is just as effective if not more so. He knows when someone is constructing a maze and he knows this is something that Derek rarely does because that isn’t how he operates. So Stiles fucking _knows_ the punchline before Derek even gets to it. And Stiles doesn’t know if he wants to go there with Derek. If he’s ready to make his own confession.

“Are _you_ okay?” Stiles asks because he wants to divert and because he’s honestly concerned. The Trúma was another piece of Derek’s childhood violently ripped away.

“Yeah. Sure.” Derek’s face blanks. He looks down at his hands before rubbing them on his knees. “It’s just one more thing gone. There’s nothing I can do about it.” It’s a clinical assessment that follows perfect logic. A skip to the final stage of grief: acceptance. But at the same time, it could be an admission to helplessness. Stiles isn’t sure which.

Derek turns his whole body to confront Stiles. Now _he’s_ the one assessing. Stiles can tell by the way Derek’s eyes move over his face, like someone reading a book—thinking, gauging, seeking something in Stiles’ posture. Looking for the entry wound.

“I’ve noticed you have the same reaction every time you see—blood.”

It’s not just blood. But it’s obvious by Derek’s hesitation that he knows that.

Stiles bunches his mouth into a tight frown, raises his eyebrows, and shrugs. “Yep. It’s a thing that freaks me out.”

Derek doesn’t give chase when Stiles doesn’t say anything more and returns his eyes to the TV screen. That’s the conclusion of their conversation, so they end up in silence. It gives Stiles time to evaluate what it means to avoid talking about his mom with Derek.

_Would you just trust me this once?_

_No. You don't trust me. I don't trust you_.

Stiles laughs. Derek glances at him sharply.

This whole dating thing has been a delayed trust fall. Stiles never pushed for anything to happen because he didn’t trust Derek enough to accept him.

“My mom,” Stiles says. “Hit and run. My fault.” He pauses. That probably requires some elaboration and he’s not really up to going into detail for once. “She saved me. Anyway, doctors said it was a miracle she wasn’t dead on arrival. She only survived for two more weeks. Blood poisoning—sepsis, whatever.” He says it as quickly as he can, like someone ripping off a band-aid. Slow detail conjures memory and every feeling that’s attached.

“Ah,” Derek says softly. It’s barely a sound at all. But really, Derek must’ve expected some story like that.

Stiles keeps his eyes on the floor so he doesn’t see the look on Derek’s face, doesn’t know if he’s staring or not. Derek doesn’t say he’s ‘sorry’ and Stiles could kiss him for that.

Actually, that’s exactly what he’s going to do.

He glances at Derek and sees empathy there. It reminds Stiles of those times he’s with Scott and someone says something with a double meaning, something that happens to unwittingly reference an inside joke, and they laugh at exactly the same time or exchange a look in synchronized motion, like a magnetic force is pushing them together. Derek’s look is a _reflection_ not a look of compassion. The difference is astronomical—compassion always gives Stiles the sense that someone is trying to coax him into talking or asking for something he doesn’t want to give. He’s grateful that Derek understands his brand of avoidance and knows that once the dead come up in conversation, it’s best to just let them blink out—don’t prolong the use of their name.

Don’t keep reminding him that she’s gone.

Stiles pushes passed his fear of rejection and presses his lips to Derek’s. The trust fall is complete.

Derek’s lips are absurdly warm—alpha werewolf body temperature and all that. Of course, Stiles has noticed this before, but now that he’s the one making contact, he’s more conscious of it. Derek’s lips are also pliant, which is good; Derek isn’t ready to pull away or internally recoiling if his muscles are that relaxed.

Their mouths are all out of sync movement leading to bumped teeth and noses. It’s awkward and clumsy because Stiles is a teenager and knows fuck all about what he’s doing and he’s thinking too damn much and for some reason, this was so much fucking simpler when Derek started things. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This has to be the worst kiss Derek has ever had—

And then Derek muffles a small, breathy laugh against Stiles’ mouth. He tilts Stiles’ head with a hand at the base of his skull to improve the angle. The scrape of Derek’s facial hair is more like a pleasant distraction than something scratchy and uncomfortable. Stiles recovers some dignity by making Derek hiss sharply with a flick of tongue against Derek’s teeth. He wonders if Derek will ever let him lick his fangs. Would that do anything to his werewolf instincts? Would it drive him crazy?

Stiles’ teeth catch on Derek’s upper lip. Derek retaliates by biting at the corner of his mouth.

They quickly grow bored of fighting and resume the slow pace they started with. Derek’s responses are controlled and methodical and Stiles learns what Derek likes—what both of them like. Heat burns in his cheeks and curls in his stomach. He’s half-hard. He breaks away.

Derek’s eyes are red.

Stiles blinks, surprised. “Dude. Did you just lose control?”

Derek snorts and lounges back against the couch. He easily blinks the red away. “Put your ego on a leash.”

“What?” Stiles tries to shake the endorphin high from his brain. “Wait, what?”

Derek rolls his eyes and graces Stiles with one of his rare, openly pleased smiles. “No. I didn’t lose control. I just don’t have to hide what I am around you. It’s actually a natural response.”

“Huh,” is the only reply Stiles is capable of producing. He can’t think of anything clever or eloquent.

Derek’s grin doesn’t fade. Wow, this must be a record. “You better head home. It’s getting late.”

“Right.” Stiles frowns. “I’ll be seeing you on Friday?”

“That’s Scott.”

“Wednesday?”

“Lydia.”

Oh, right. Damn. “Monday?”

Derek nods. “Kissing really makes you stupid.”

“Yeah, you know what? I’m going home now.” It’s really not the kissing that’s making him stupid. It’s the blue balls. If Stiles has to wait six months to have sex with Derek, he might actually rupture a testicle.

Derek is right though—Stiles has to get home. It’s eight o’clock and his dad had the morning shift so he’s probably waiting up for him, which has been an exciting, recent development in their relationship. His dad never did that before, at least not to this caliber. And Stiles hasn’t addressed the hickeys on his neck yet. Fuck. It’s not exactly like he has any makeup handy or can throw on a scarf. He could apply some caladryl and try to excuse it as a bee sting, if, you know, his dad wasn’t a sheriff and wouldn’t see through that bullshit in a heartbeat.

Stiles gets up and puts his shoes on by the door.

“Stiles. I want you to start putting a ring of mountain ash around your bed.”

Stiles snorts as he zips up Scott’s jacket. “Now look who needs to put a leash on their ego. Down boy.”

“I’m serious.”

Stiles rolls his eyes when he looks up at Derek’s stern, unforgiving glare. “I know. And you’ve just doomed me to a lifetime of insomnia, by the way.”

“Sorry,” Derek says, although he doesn’t really sound contrite. “It’s for your own good.”

“I know,” Stiles mutters.

“Also, if you have an iron fire poker, you should keep that beside you too.”

Stiles stares at him. “Thank you. That _so_ didn’t help.”

“I can buy you one if you don’t have one,” Derek says, earnest and looking for all the world like a dedicated Doberman.

Stiles mumbles to himself, “Never let it be said that my boyfriend isn’t a romantic. Forget flowers—give me a good sturdy fire poker to fend off the forces of evil. What a charmer. The light of my life.” He knows Derek can hear him but he doesn’t care.

Derek scowls. “So was that a ‘yes’ you need me to buy one or a ‘no’? I’m too tired to decode your insanity right now.”

Stiles gives a dismissive wave. “I think I’ve got one. Don’t worry about it. Goodnight, Derek.”

“Goodnight,” Derek says. “And Stiles? Be careful.”

“Yeah. You too.”


	4. EXAMINE

Stiles gets home just as his dad is leaving. He does some evasive maneuvers on the soggy welcome mat so that his hickey-side is more in shadow. Come to think of it, that might be telling by itself.

Stiles rubs his neck like he’s trying to ease away pain and not cover up incriminating evidence. “Where you off to?” The answer is obviously something work related. His dad is in his uniform.

His dad shifts from foot to foot and eyes his cruiser in the driveway. He’s clearly torn about leaving during one of the few periods they have to spend time together. Rain dots his shoulders.

“Emergency call. I’m sorry, but I’m in a hurry.”

“What kind of emergency?” Stiles tries to be the picture of curious innocence. There’s no way his dad would ever buy an act like that, but it’s mostly to conceal the type of concerned suspicion that signals that Stiles knows more than he’s letting on. If any of his anxiety leaks through, his dad is going to start asking questions—well, more than usual.

His dad is not impressed about being delayed. “I can’t tell you that, you _know_ that.”

“I’ll find out anyway. And that usually involves me doing legally dubious things.” There’s no way around it—that was an implied threat. He smothers the guilt and shame that churns his stomach.

His dad quickly glances at the ground to collect himself before pointing an admonishing finger in Stiles’ face. “I know I’m wasting my breath by saying this, but stay out of it. _Please_. If not for your own sake, then for mine. I really don’t need to be under review again. We can’t afford that.”

Stiles ducks his head. Guilt chokes him, but he has to know. He’s pushing for information for his dad’s safety. It fucking _sucks_. He hates putting his dad in this position, but he doesn’t really have a choice. “It’s not something weird—not something like a body, is it?”

His dad’s stress is high, so he won’t think to keep his lying tell in check.

“No,” his dad says. Three rapid blinks. A lie.

Stiles steps aside and lets his dad pass. “Okay. Go do your batman thing.”

His hand is on the doorknob when his dad calls out, “Stiles—I’ll see you later, okay? We’ll do something. Just you and me.”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. Sure. I’ve got a lot of plans this week—never mind. We’ll talk later.”

“Yeah,” his dad says. “Okay.” He heads to his cruiser, gets in, and disappears down the bend with a wave.

Stiles releases a breath. His guess is that something has already happened. He asked two questions so he doesn’t know if it’s just something weird or a body or both. He’s leaning towards a body—something bizarre wouldn’t usually be enough to call in the Sheriff.

Stiles locks the door behind him and heads for the living room, toward the fireplace that they haven’t used in at least eight years. He has to move a pile of boxes just to get to it. He checks the brand of their fire poker on his phone and comes up disappointed. Looks like it’s made of pewter. Damn. He’ll have to make a stop at the hardware store and see if they have anything. Maybe he’ll even get to see Derek or Isaac at work and pester them a little.

He goes to his room and pulls out the shoebox of mountain ash under his bed. How he’s supposed to just lay a ring of ash on his floor without his dad messing with it or telling him to clean it up, he has no fucking idea. He can just imagine that conversation:

‘Why son, what the ever loving fuck have you done to your carpet?’

‘Why father-dearest, I’m just protecting myself from the migration of evil forces coming this way. Did you know a flock of crows is called a murder? Do you know what a flock of faeries is called? A fucking shit show of apocalyptic proportions. Now shut up and go build us a bunker.’

Cue the Breathalyzer and/or drug test.

Stiles wonders what would happen if he put the mountain ash in some tubing and put the tubing around his bed. Would that work? He’ll have to test it out on Scott and see. In the meantime, he’ll have to settle on the messy method or go totally defenseless.

Once he’s done lying down the circle, he flops down on his bed and listens to the rain and thunder. Sending confirmation texts to Scott, Lydia, and Boyd only takes a second. And then it’s barely nine o’clock and he has _nothing_ to do. He could go to sleep, but he’s too full of energy. He would do some research but he doesn’t want to sort through the ninety-nine percent bullshit tangled around the one percent of useful information. Not tonight anyway. His patience is feeling fickle.

He thinks of Derek.

Stiles unbuttons his jeans and slides his hand beneath the waistband of his underwear. He takes himself in hand, thinking of Derek’s skin and what he looks like during an arduous training session. God knows Stiles has enough mental images of Derek sweaty and half naked filed away. He thinks of Derek’s ridiculous warmth—kissing him—Derek’s hand on his shoulder, on his face, and where it has never been, on his dick.

The fantasy evolves to images of Derek fucking him. _That_ would consume Stiles’ entire focus. Derek’s cock would constantly remind him it was there just by the sheer _heat_ of it. He imagines the reverse—being inside Derek, feeling that heat clenching around him.

Stiles pushes his pants further down his hips and reaches for the bottle of lotion that he keeps hidden between the frame of his bed and his nightstand. He picks up the pace.

He remembers Derek’s voice in his ear, gruff and breathless, when they made out in the jeep. He wants to destroy Derek’s methodical control and make him growl with that low, lion-like rumble he knows is buried in there somewhere. He thinks about the power of Derek’s body—imagines that power around him and red eyes hovering above him, boring _into_ him.

Stiles comes with a cracked gasp. His rapid pulse makes him aware of every fine vein in his body, even the ones throbbing in his eyes, lips, ears, and the very ends of his fingertips. Every nerve fizzles, a foggy cloud of sensation slowly trying to reassemble into something cohesive. He cleans himself off with a few tissues and drops them and the lotion bottle between the bed and the nightstand. He’s too lazy to discard them properly right now.

The flood of endorphins and dopamine lighten his mind. He doesn’t dwell on the Trúma, the Nemeton, guilt, shame, or fear.

***

By Thursday, the rain dwindles into a drizzle. There’s a story in the paper about a man named Daniel Chamberlain found dead in the middle of the night. Stiles is a little impressed with the promptness of a small town’s local paper. Truthfully, they bleed for anything that will expand their readership beyond the same group of senior citizens that have been here since the dawn of time. But still. That was fucking quick.

Mr. Chamberlain was cut open from bottom lip to pelvis in the front and from atlas to coccyx in the back. Just to throw a cherry on top of the rather gruesome killing, his organs are missing. Because being vertically bisected wasn’t weird enough apparently. Stiles’ dad isn’t around all day. He’ll probably be working overtime on this.

Chamberlain lived alone. No family. Did two years for vehicular manslaughter. He was drunk driving when he hit fourteen-year-old Alex Dresden on his bike back in 1996. Sentence ruled a misdemeanor because it was dark and the kid wasn’t wearing any reflectors. A sober driver could’ve hit him.

Stiles expects that the pack will be on this too—after all, it’s probably another demonic Tinkerbelle on the loose—but all Derek says is: _not enough info yet. still looking into it_. And then nothing else for the rest of the day.

***

By Friday, the rain has passed but the clouds seem happy to loom and be ominous little fuckers. Stiles drives over to Scott’s and wonders how badly he’s going to get his ass kicked on a scale of one to I-would-rather-amputate-my-own-legs-with-a-toothpick-than-do-this-again.

When he arrives, Scott is waiting for him in the driveway.

Stiles gets out of the jeep to greet him. “Wow. Eager much?”

Scott grins. His eyes flash gold. “I like running. Never had the chance to appreciate it with, you know, the asthma.”

“Fair enough. So where are we doing this? Just a run around the block?”

“I was thinking about the Preserve.” Oh, God. Scott sounds positively _giddy_. “I don’t think I’ll be able to contain myself around people.”

“Uh, two things.” Stiles leans back against the hood of his jeep and watches Scott vibrate with energy. “One, I think the Preserve is a no-go. The Nemeton attracting Halloween Town, ring any bells? I think it’s too dangerous. Two, that’s bullshit—you can totally control yourself. So don’t even give me that.”

Scott’s muscles freeze. Even his chest doesn’t look like it’s moving. His good mood dims. “Maybe I don’t want to control myself. It’s so exhausting paying attention to every little thing I do just so I don’t get found out. Captivity is driving me insane.”

It’s a startling thing to hear from Scott. He’s the one who was always so concerned about holding onto his humanity and fighting what the bite gave him.

“Okay. I get wanting to let loose,” Stiles says. He might not understand it to Scott’s extreme, but having ADHD and sitting in a school for eight hours, listening to a teacher drone on about some useless fact that will never be relevant or useful in daily life makes him want to run screaming out of a window. “I’m all for unleashing the beast, especially if the beast is really just a puppy looking for walksies. But the Nemeton is still an issue.”

Scott sighs. “Yeah. I know. But we can’t avoid the Preserve forever. I can push you there without worry _and_ challenge myself. Plus, just because we know about what’s going on with the Nemeton, that doesn’t mean that ordinary people do. People will still jog there. Maybe we need to be on constant patrol just in case something starts preying on joggers or to prevent them from seeing something. Come on, there’s logic in that. You like logic.”

Stiles does like logic. And all of that is very true. Actually, it’s a good idea and should be presented to Derek. Stiles feels his resolve crumble.

“You’re safe with me,” Scott promises. And who can deny that confidence? “We can stay on the outskirts of the Preserve. Out of sight but in easy escape range. Good enough?”

Stiles caves. “Fine. But if we get attacked while I’m dead on my feet with a cramp in my side, you better pick me up and run like the wind.”

“I plan to,” Scott says.

They get in the jeep.

“Here’s to not dying pointlessly,” Stiles mutters as he checks his rearview mirror. “You know there was a strange, mysterious murder, right? Some form of the boogey man is out there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Scott says.

Funny. Scott never reads the news, so how would he know?

***

This is _hell_.

Stiles is at the point where his mouth can’t produce proper saliva, so it just coagulates on the back of his tongue like sludge. He chokes on it every time he swallows and pants for breath. His lungs and sinuses burn from the excessive oxygen intake, and that burning produces a painful nausea that aches in every cell of his chest. He’s so thirsty for a calm breath that he could throw up. On top of all that, he’s rubber man. His arms and legs can’t stop wobbling. He’s completely incapable of running in a straight line. Sweat coats the front, back, and armpits of his tee-shirt.

On a scale of one to I-would-rather-amputate-my-own-legs-with-a-toothpick-than-do-this-again, he’s about an I-would-rather-snort-kanima-venom-in-the-hopes-that-cardiac-arrest-will-kill-me-faster.

Meanwhile, Scott is running circles around him. He’s like a dog in a car with the window down, lapping at the air.

When Stiles trips on a tree root and goes down, he’s content to leave his face in the mud. He doesn’t even care if bugs are crawling in his ears and up his nose. There are more important things in life. Like living.

“Dude!” Scott skips to his side and kneels in the mud by his head. “Are you okay!”

Stiles is pretty sure some slimy leaves are stuck to his face.

Scott helps him up, but Stiles is a little reluctant to get to his feet, just in case Scott forces him to run again. He ends up getting dragged across the mud on his knees. And if that looks anything like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, that’s just a coincidence.

“You could’ve asked for a break,” Scott grumbles.

Stiles kindly uses the hem of Scott’s shirt to wipe the mud off his face. He’s tempted to spit on it for good measure. “Did. _Twice_.”

“That doesn’t count. We were barely at a mile!”

Stiles rarely glowers with intent. And for Scott to receive such an unwelcome expression is even more uncommon. So this is one momentous occasion. “You can’t,” a gasp, “expect me to,” a cough, “ _run_ like a marathoner just because you want me to be one.” He takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “You have to build me up to your expectations. _Gradually_. I should blame Derek for this. You’ve adopted his sink or swim philosophy. Now give me your water bottle and we’ll call it barely even.”

Scott readily hands his water bottle over. Stiles takes it and gulps down as much water as he can as fast as he can. It’s not the best decision given that his stomach is still doing flips and his nausea is still lurking at the back of his throat, but he doesn’t give a fuck.

Scott crowds into his space and takes him by the arm. “You know what? You’re right. Sorry. You’re too tired to keep going. Reached your limit.” He starts pushing Stiles along, practically carrying him. “Time to get home now.”

The abrupt urgency to return to the jeep sets off alarms in Stiles’ head. If Scott was going for subtlety, he failed. Blood roars in his ears. Now that he’s in fight-or-flight, he notices it—the silence. There aren’t any birds chirping or chipmunks or squirrels chattering. No furry or feathery creature disturbs the underbrush or the trees. That’s usually a sign that a predator is nearby, isn’t it?

Scott scoops him up and bolts. Stiles can’t see anything—can barely distinguish one tree from the next with how fast Scott is running—but he hears something, a crashing rustle like a large body giving chase. Before Stiles knows what’s happening, they’re sailing through the air. Scott flies away from him and smacks brutally against a tree.

And Stiles looks into the black, beady eyes of the neighborhood jolly green giant.

Mimi dangles him in the air by his foot, giggling like a psychotic child. With the game won, she drops him on the ground. Stiles tries to stifle the instinctive bubble of relief that at least they didn’t stumble across a new threat so soon. But Derek said they can’t count on Mimi as a full ally yet—not until the pack is able to supply her with enough energy to sustain her hunger. Right now, she _could_ be their enemy.

Mimi’s long, green arms reach for a broad tree branch. She swings from it, whooping and cheering in a sort of tribal victory. Her heavy, white dreadlocks flop against her bare chest.

Scott groans and Stiles makes a move in his direction but stops when Mimi barks a disapproving “Uh!”

“I’m good,” Scott wheezes.

“So!” Stiles clears his throat. His nerves buzz with the desire to get as far away from their capricious friend as soon as possible. “How’s it going?”

Mimi sneers, “How’s _what_ going?”

“Um—your life in this big, old world?” His body is too spent from physical activity. With fear wreaking havoc on his overexerted muscles, he can’t stay standing for long. He sinks to his knees.

The flesh around Mimi’s eyes flinches. Her lips pull back to reveal gleaming, sharp teeth. “A Tempest Witch died. It was _very sad_.”

Stiles can’t think of an appeasing response beyond, “Yeah. Yeah it was.”

“But that’s on a different strand of the web,” she says. And just like that her demeanor changes. She’s suddenly chipper, giggling and batting at her dreadlocks. The earth trembles when she throws herself to the ground. “You have a big, big, _big_ problem,” she sings.

Stiles’ mouth gapes like a suffocating fish. He doesn’t know what game she’s playing. “Oh yeah?”

“It has to be fixed or I’m going to devour all of your pack mates.”

Terror scrapes down his spine. “Is there anything I can do to fix this? Can you tell me what the problem is?”

“No.” Mimi pouts and looks away from him, putting on an air of flirty dismissal. “Can’t say a thing. If I tell you, you won’t be able to fix it.”

That’s fucking unhelpful. “Well, I’ll do what I can.” And since this is an incredibly rare opportunity, he has a few questions he hopes Mimi can shed some light on. “By the way—I was just wondering—did you see what happened to the Trúma?”

Mimi rises to her feet with an eerie, serpentine grace. It’s a bizarre sight, seeing someone move without the aid of their limbs. Her grin turns wicked. “Yes. I saw.”

Stiles sits up straighter and glances quickly at Scott. A witness. Maybe they can take care of that incident faster than they expected to. “What was it—what did that?”

She shrugs, switching to apathy. “Can’t say a thing.”

Stiles doesn’t dare push for more. He’s too afraid that she’ll lash out. He tries another angle. “Something killed a man yesterday. He was practically torn in half. Do you have any idea what did that?”

She turns her chin into her shoulder and pats her fingers over her lips. “Yes.”

“And?” he prods.

“Can’t say a thing.”

Stiles keeps a firm grip on his temper, but he can’t help but ask, “Why _not_?”

“You’re asking questions that all have the same answer. And if I tell you the answer, you can’t solve the problem.”

“So everything’s connected,” Stiles says. He doesn’t know if he finds that reassuring or not.

Mimi extends her arms above her head and traces invisible lines in the air. “Like strands on a spider web. Squish the spider, destroy the web.”

“Okay.” Stiles staggers to his feet. Mimi’s head whips in his direction and he tries not to be too unnerved by her predatory stare. “So if I fix the problem—this one problem—everyone’s happy.”

“Yes,” Mimi says. “Once you fix the problem, then I’ll save your life.”

Stiles’ mind screeches to a halt. “What?”

“I only said I’ll eat your pack mates because _you’ll_ be dead before them if you don’t solve the problem.”

His heart thunders in his chest. Fear surges through his brain, hot and blinding. “What do you mean? What are you _talking_ about?”

Mimi cocks her head at a rather impressive angle. She pats her lips, flirty again. “Something made you rotten.”

And with that, she vanishes. There’s no puff of smoke or sound or anything—just one moment she’s there, and then gone in the blink of an eye.

Stiles turns to Scott. “What the hell was that about?”

Scott’s eyes are wide as he shrugs. He hobbles over and grabs Stiles’ shoulder. “I don’t know. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

***

“Do you think we should tell Derek?” Scott asks. He’s driving. Stiles doesn’t think his attention span is up for the task. Foreboding death threats tend to rattle one’s concentration.

“If we do, I have a feeling he’ll put us in timeout at the bottom of the ocean.” Even as Stiles says this, he has his phone in hand and weighs what words won’t earn him one of Derek’s trademark conniptions.

“I’m telling him,” Scott says.

“Wait, what? If you already decided, why did you ask?”

Scott shrugs. “I don’t really want to listen to one of his lectures. But what Mimi had to say about you—it sounded pretty fucking bad. I don’t think we really have a choice.”

Stiles glances out the window and reviews the information he has. The answer to Mimi’s riddle is obvious. The pack’s development is the only thing that would generate her concern. So what was hindering that progress? Jackson—but Stiles thinks he’s coming around. At a fucking snail’s pace, but still. There is a positive direction. And then there’s Peter. Always Peter. He’s the biggest thorn in their side. Peter might consider Derek pack, but the rest of them? No way. But then again, when he was an alpha, he chose Scott and nearly chose Stiles. Maybe there’s some pack instinct deep down. Maybe, but extremely doubtful. Stiles can’t afford to be an optimist, especially not where Peter’s concerned. The three problems—the unidentified one, the Trúma, and Daniel Chamberlain—have to connect to him.

And Stiles has to tell Derek. That’s going to be a _great_ conversation.

“Hey. You think you can go to Chandler’s Hardware?” Stiles asks. He pockets his phone.

Scott’s eyes flick to him briefly before returning to the road. “We could just text him. We don’t need to go out of our way to see him.”

“I need to go there anyway. I need a fire poker and some rubber tubing.”

Scott hums this tiny, disagreeing noise. “Why don’t I drop you off at your house and pick those things up for you? You’ve had a rough day. You should rest.” Scott’s consideration verges on desperately insistent. Suspicious. Poor boy can’t play casual when he’s trying to be secretive.

“Scotty. What are you hiding?”

Scott tries to put up a front by frowning, like he has no idea what Stiles is talking about. Too bad Scott’s frown is so pronounced that no one would buy it as genuine. “What? I just think you need a break. You don’t need a screaming match with Derek on top of everything else.”

Stiles snorts. “Scott. I asked to go to a store four minutes away, not hike Mount Everest so I can duel a Yeti. Just fucking _go_.”

Scott stops at the next red light but doesn’t put on his blinker to head into town. “I’m doing you a favor by keeping you out of shouting range. You should thank me.”

“Dude. You seem to think angry Derek is a Stiles-repellent. You are so wrong, my friend. When he gets all hot and bothered, _I_ get all hot and bothered. We’d have the best angry sex.”

Scott gurgles on his repulsion. “That is so much more information than I needed to know.”

“And if you don’t drive me to the store, I’m going to tell you all the kinks I’m going to explore with Derek. In alphabetical order.”

“Don’t you _dare_.”

The light turns green but they don’t make it through the intersection. It’s a stupidly fast light.

“A is for all things anal. Except for probably fisting because ow,” Stiles begins.

“Nope.” Scott’s shoulders shrug up to his ears. Like _that’s_ going to shut out Stiles’ voice.

“B is for barebacking, biting, blindfolds, blow jobs, bondage, and bottoming. I think there are a few others in there somewhere.”

“I hate you so much,” Scott groans. “Still not going.” And now he’s not even trying to hide that he’s hiding something.

This isn’t working. Whatever has Scott so resistant can’t be manipulated by childish means. Fine then. “Scott, if you don’t go there, I will do everything in my power to see Derek. That’ll be pretty fucking easy once you head home and I have my jeep. You guys don’t want me forming plans _against_ you. You won’t win. Make this easier for everyone and surrender to my superior intellect.” Apparently, threatening his loved ones is becoming his new, favorite passed time.

Sighing, Scott turns right.

***

Chandler’s Hardware has a surprising range of stock for such a small, rustic building. Lucky for Stiles, he finds his iron fire poker by some supplies for outdoor fire pits. It’s a nice one too, sharp with a decorative ivy leaf curling away from the pointed end.

Actually, they supply a lot of iron. He inspects the aisles and finds iron door knobs, iron fencing, iron nails and screws, and even iron trellises in the gardening section. Seriously. Who the fuck needs an iron trellis? Aren’t all these things usually made of steel or brass, so they don’t rust? Beside the metal trellises, there are wooden ones labeled ‘mountain ash.’ The store also has a crate of hand-sharpened wooden stakes for $1.29 apiece near some tarps. Also mountain ash. And that’s when Stiles really starts to suspect that Chandler’s Hardware might be run by Buffy the vampire slayer.

Curiously, Derek and Isaac are nowhere to be found. Scott walks behind him, and although Stiles can’t see his mouth moving, he can hear Scott’s breathy mumbling. It’s too quiet for Stiles to understand what Scott’s saying, but he knows Scott is probably talking to the lying, sneaky bastards lurking somewhere in this place.

Stiles grabs some rubber tubing that looks fairly flexible and suitable for the mountain ash circle. He approaches the cashier counter. It looks like the outside of a log cabin constructed with long cuts of tree trunks stacked on top of each other.

There’s a set of yellow handprints in the space where people usually place their items. Stiles feels oddly compelled to cover the yellow hands with his. He gives in to the bizarre impulse.

The woman behind the counter is young, probably in her twenties since Stiles knows he hasn’t seen her around school. She has a stringy mass of red curls, a pale face with freckles, small eyes, and a long, curved nose. According to her name tag, her name is Cynthia.

As she rings up the fire poker and the tubing, Stiles asks, “Is Derek working today?”

Cynthia’s mouth stretches into a pitying smirk. “Lots of people ask that.”

“I’m a friend of his.”

Her lips stretch wider. “Lots of people say that too.”

“Do lots of people accuse him of knocking up their sisters?” He asks just to throw that patronizing look off her face.

It works like a charm. Her eyes go wide and her cheeks turn a vibrant red. Scott seems to inhale a laugh and makes a noise like a snuffling wild boar. Stiles’ phone goes off.

It’s Derek: _dont spread dirty rumors about me you fucking moron_.

“Just kidding,” Stiles says. The satisfying look of shock on her face eases away. “I don’t have a sister. I just wanted to see if Derek was in hearing range.”

Cynthia frowns. A thick crease appears between her eyebrows. “There’s no way he can hear you. He’s all the way—” She turns to the room behind her and stops herself from finishing that sentence. “Well, damn. You can’t get to him anyway. Employees only.”

She viciously bags his things and nods to the door. Stiles heads to the corner by the entrance, out of Cynthia’s sight so he can text Derek, when Scott says, “He wants us to meet him out back. I told him about Mimi.”

***

Derek looks like he’s narrowly restraining himself from punching Scott in the eye.

“The Preserve? _Really_?” It’s something of a bewildering gift—Derek, of all people, can charge one word with so much emotion that it could probably punch Scott in the eye for him.

Scott’s defiance is spoiled by the embarrassed flush rising in his cheeks. He doesn’t make a move to defend himself. Stiles suspects that Scott isn’t submitting—he’s just more reluctant to fan the flames of Derek’s anger.

Derek turns towards Stiles and that’s when he sees it—a faint, pink line like a healing scar stretching from Derek’s bottom lip and straight down the center of his throat. Stiles bets the rest of the line extends all the way to Derek’s pelvis. He circles around to Derek’s back, grabbing for the hem of his blue work shirt to check and see if there’s a line on his spine too, but Derek steps out of reach and gently closes his fingers around both of Stiles’ wrists. Fucking werewolf strength—no matter how much he tugs, he can’t break the grip of Derek’s _fingers_. Wow, that pisses him off even more.

“Oh, you fucking bastard,” Stiles spits. The marks are undeniably the same as Chamberlain’s. “When did it happen? Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” Scratch that. Stiles darts a betrayed look at Scott. “Why the fuck didn’t _you_ tell me?”

Scott bites his lip and stares at the gravel on the ground. There’s a stubborn set to his jaw that overshadows his shame.

“Derek—what the _fuck_! Talking. I thought that was a thing we were doing these days.” Again, Stiles jerks his arms back in an effort to pull free. But Derek won’t release him. Instead, he steps further into Stiles’ space and spreads Stiles’ arms wider. The new angle makes it harder to struggle. “We had a conversation and everything. Oh, wait—sorry. I suppose I should find some consolation in the fact that at _one point_ you knew what those were.”

Despite the recurring problem of Derek’s poor communication skills—there has to be something else, something Stiles is missing. Because Derek has little regard for his own safety, he wouldn’t keep getting attacked a secret if that was all that happened. But when it comes to the safety of others…

“Who else?” he demands.

Derek’s eyes search the sky like a little box of emergency patience is about to float down on a parachute. His nostrils flare on a steady, drawn out exhale. He glares at Scott. “This is why I didn’t want him to see me.”

Stiles stomps on Derek’s foot with every ounce of strength he has. It’s enough to make Derek close his eyes and wince but not let go.

“Jackson,” Scott says.

“ _Dammit_ , Scott,” Derek snarls.

Scott throws up his hands. “You know what? This is a lose-lose situation for me. Everything I say in _your_ favor,” he says to Derek, “Pisses _you_ off,” he says to Stiles, “And vice versa. Look—I know why you’re both doing what you’re doing and you both really need to hear each other out. I’ll be listening in the car.”

“Let me go, for fuck’s sake,” Stiles says as he watches Scott walk up the gravelly incline that leads to the front parking lot.

Derek rubs his thumbs over the protruding bones in Stiles’ wrists. “I don’t want you to take a swing at me and break your hand.”

Stiles isn’t sure what offends him more—the idea that Derek thinks that he’s willing to solve their disagreements with violence or the way Derek seems to accept violence as a viable solution as long as it doesn’t hurt his tender human skin. “Derek. I’d _never_ hit you. Never like that.”

“You just stomped on my foot.”

“Only because you won’t fucking let _go_.”

Derek immediately releases him. Stiles rubs his wrists. It’s not that they hurt—it’s just that residual sensation that lingers in your nerves after being touched. Sense memory or whatever. Derek’s fingers weren’t even tight enough to leave a mark.

“So tell me everything,” Stiles says. “And spare me the crap about protecting me.”

Derek rubs his fingers over his temples and across his eyebrows. “Jackson and I were attacked last night. We think it was about two or three hours apart. Jackson’s attack was before mine. Whatever it is, it’s very particular about its target. Lydia was with Jackson and it didn’t touch her, not even when she intervened. She just screamed at it and it vanished, I guess.

“It did a similar thing with me. It came into my room. I don’t know how. The doors and windows were locked and closed. It tore through my—well.” Derek waves a hand over his lip and neck. “Isaac and Peter heard me. They came in. Peter went for it. Isaac, with his human instincts, turned on the light and the thing fled.”

Stiles pulls a face. “It’s afraid of light?”

“Yeah. It’s unusual for the supernatural to be repelled by manmade light. The Maroosh can’t stand the sun. Werewolves and witches derive power from the moon. _Natural_ light has power.”

Except when it comes to shadows. “Any light affects the dark,” Stiles says.

Derek inclines his head, pleased. Well, as pleased as he can be when he’s pissed off. “Exactly.” Derek crosses his arms. “It’s a shade. An inverse force. When Matt violated the rules surrounding the Kanima’s power, it backfired, remember? When you kill something as powerful as a Tempest Witch,” Derek pauses. A muscle spasms at the corner of his mouth. It’s a quiet expression of pain, “there are consequences. It would take an incredible amount of power to take a Trúma down. Nature balanced itself out by creating an even darker force to hunt whatever killed the Trúma.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and mirrors Derek by crossing his arms. Somewhere, Stiles heard that crossing your arms was a way to guard yourself. People communicate with their bodies and hands just as much as they do with words. Crossing your arms is a way to close off a line of communication—maybe as a sign of apprehension, mistrust, or intimidation. It explains why Derek does it all the time. “And you found all of that out in one night?”

Derek breaks eye contact and focuses somewhere over Stiles’ shoulder. “We talked to Deaton. He calls it an Avenging Angel.”

“Deaton,” Stiles repeats with thinly veiled outrage. Going to Deaton is pretty much code for ‘this is DEFCON 1’ and Derek didn’t fucking tell him _anything_. “And who’s ‘we?’ The rest of the pack?”

Derek nods, stiff and forced.

“And the reason you decided to have a full pack meeting without me was because?”

The way Derek holds himself is practically military—his body is unmoving, posture taut and straight, gaze steely and unwavering. “Because Peter found out the common denominator before we consulted Deaton. Stiles. I know you have trouble grasping this, but I am in charge. _I_ call the shots. Yes, you’re my support and a strong voice of reason, but that’s it. You’re counsel. I’m command. And before you waste your energy on some dickish, witty remark, why don’t you put all the pieces together. Tell me, what do you, me, Jackson, and Daniel Chamberlain have in common?”

Stiles swallows his fury and examines the puzzle pieces. Their new monster of the week is trying to go terminator on the Trúma’s killer. His thoughts run through a simple progression: a murderer—death—responsibility—guilt. Ah.

Stiles goes numb.

“Guilt.”

Not just any guilt, a special brand of guilt. Jackson and Derek were murder weapons. Jackson’s selfish ambition turned him into a monster open to exploitation. Derek ignored years of ingrained precaution and let slip information he should’ve known to keep under a tight lid. Chamberlain and Stiles were both guilty of negligence. Chamberlain couldn’t think beyond his own consequences. Never thought that his actions could rope in innocent people. And Stiles? For one second—one vital second of his life—he couldn’t keep his fucking attention under control. For just one. Fucking. Second.

“You’re a target,” Derek says softly. “I wanted to keep you out of it. If you keep a ring of ash around your bed, you’ll be safe. We were going to tell you to keep your light on and carry a flashlight wherever you went at night as a safety measure. We were thinking of shifts to watch you. I don’t know.” Derek scratches his jaw the way people do when they need something to do with their hands. “I don’t know what we were going to tell you to keep you from looking into things. Just—whatever you do, if you end up seeing it, don’t fight it. _I_ barely managed to keep it off me.”

Stiles listens and passively forms counterarguments in his head—seriously, when is less information ever better than more?—but his mind is stuck on his mom. The weight of her death hasn’t felt this heavy in a long time. He has always blamed himself—will always blame himself—but there are days when he thinks, ‘oh, for fuck’s sake, I was _nine_ ’ and other days when he wants to find where George Dameo lives, set his car on fire, and spray paint STILINSKI along the entire length of his house. If he even lives in a house. But Stiles never would. Self-righteous vandalism just isn’t his style. Honesty, most days, he doesn’t think about his mom much—not if he doesn’t have to. Not as long as he isn’t reminded.

Derek places a hand on Stiles’ waist. It’s kind of an odd reminder where they stand with each other; a friendly, brotherly gesture would be a touch to his back or shoulder. This is something slightly more intimate than that.

Stiles bites his lip. Now he’s going to ruin this connection by pissing Derek off more. “Derek. We have another problem.”

“I know.” Derek sighs. It’s an expectant, longsuffering sigh. He withdraws his hand but doesn’t move entirely out of Stiles’ personal space, so that’s something at least. “Scott told me. Before you ask, Peter was with me when the Trúma’s path disappeared. I noticed it before he did.” Derek shifts further away and crosses his arms again. “Even if he wasn’t around,” he shakes his head and laughs for the sake of making a sound, “he wouldn’t be strong enough to hurt a Trúma. It would’ve slaughtered him.”

Stiles tries to reel in his frustration. There goes Derek—off to Peter’s rescue again. Stiles doesn’t know how Derek can stomach doing that after knowing what Peter did to Laura. Especially now that the ‘Avenging Angel’ left Peter unscathed. Doesn’t Derek understand what that means? It means that regardless of Peter’s goal to avenge his family, he doesn’t feel guilty over killing his _niece_. If Derek hasn’t made that connection, Stiles doesn’t have the heart to do it now. And if Derek _has_ made the connection, Stiles isn’t cruel enough to pour more salt in that wound.

Despite Derek’s ‘evidence,’ Stiles isn’t ready to count Peter out just yet. If Peter wasn’t strong enough to kill the Trúma himself, it made sense that he’d have an alibi because—

“Then he must’ve found someone to do it for him,” Stiles says. He represses the urge to cringe. It sounds like he’s grasping at straws and desperate to pin this on Peter, but he _can’t_ be wrong.

Derek looks up at the sky again—an obvious attempt to rein in _his_ frustration. Red doesn’t flash in his eyes because Derek has impeccable control over his wolf instincts, but fury bleeds into his muscles. It’s in the way his hands curl into fists at his sides and the thrumming restlessness in his legs, like he’s itching to buckle into a defensive stance.

“ _Or_ ,” Derek says. And that would be his emotionally punctuated bullet of a word. “She’s fucking with you. Faeries do that. Explain to me why you think any of this involves Peter.”

“Because the pack is the only thing Mimi cares about!” Stiles shouts. He’s the first to break in every way. He rests all of his weight on the foot spread in front of him, poised and ready for a fight. This is fucking stupid. Derek is so fucking _stubborn_. When it comes to Peter, Derek is weirdly distant and untouchable like he and Peter are in their little, exclusive Hale clique and the rest of them are sub-par replacements for faceless, nameless relatives. Always failing to measure up.

“It never occurred to you to think that this was a test?” Derek snaps. “She’s testing our trust—to see how well we hold together under a threat. She knows who you trust the least and she did everything to point in his direction. No—actually, I bet she didn’t even do that. I bet you made that connection all on your own. She’s playing a game and you’re falling for it.”

And if Stiles thought he was leaping to conclusions and sounded desperate, Derek is _worse_. “How the fuck would she even know that about me?” Stiles asks.

Derek releases an infuriated groan to the sky. _Again_. Stiles would like to know if Derek has some sympathetic third party up there because he sure seems to give the sky a lot of attention during their arguments. Stiles wants to say, ‘the sky doesn’t have ears, Derek. _It’s not the referee_.’

“ _Because_ ,” Derek says like he’s a father who’s heard his infant ask ‘why’ way too many times. “Because that’s what faeries can do. Look—they aren’t inherently good or evil. They live to amuse themselves by causing chaos and they love to see the wreckage that’s left over. With the Nemeton open, Mimi might not even need us anymore. Faeries are bound to their word in every way. Mimi can’t lie. She can’t back out of a bargain unless the other party backs out first or dies. This could be her way of backing out.”

Fine. That never occurred to Stiles because he doesn’t have insider information on the behavioral characteristics of faeries (the bestiary doesn’t go into that level of detail). He’s willing to take that into account. But Derek isn’t going to do the same despite everything Peter has done in the past? Really?

Stiles laughs and drags a hand through his hair. It’s probably sticking up everywhere and looks as ruffled as he feels. “How can you— _why_ do you defend him _all the time_?”

The tension in Derek’s back wilts like a taut, anchored rope suddenly severed. His body has the same rigidity—the same basic appearance—but there’s a noticeable loss of drive.

“I knew who he was before all of this,” Derek says. “No, I don’t think he’s even remotely the same as he was then and I don’t have some stupid hope that he’ll recover. From personal experience, I know that’s not possible. And I sure as hell haven’t forgiven him for Laura.” Derek glances back at the rear entrance to Chandler’s Hardware. “Look. You can’t understand what it’s like. You have to remember I’ve had seven years to cope.” Derek’s mouth twists. “If you can call it that, I guess. But Peter hasn’t even had half of that. He’s only had self-awareness for the last two or three years. I hate him. And I love him. He’s the last living remains of a time you know _nothing_ about.”

It’s stupid to feel hurt by a simple truth, but Stiles _is_ wounded by that. There’s a piece of Derek that none of them will ever touch because it doesn’t exist anymore—it’s preserved behind glass like a museum diorama.

But Stiles kind of gets it. The grieving cling to any remnant of a time that will never come again. Stiles and his dad don’t just have photographs tucked in closets; they have his mom’s clothes, makeup, and random notebooks stashed in the attic. Because what do you do with those things when the person who owned them is gone? He and his dad kept just about anything that proves, once upon a time, Claudia Stilinski walked the earth. Grocery lists and birthday cards lie buried in the forgotten corners of Stiles’ room and every accidentally recovered memory is as concussive as a landmine.

Granted, pieces of paper don’t suffer from illusions of grandeur or go on homicidal rampages. So Derek’s collected remains (Peter) should be treated with _some_ fucking caution.

Derek’s voice shakes Stiles from his thoughts. “Stop making that face.”

Stiles looks up from the gravel and takes the time to observe Derek. His expression is slack—slightly open-mouthed and free from creases that betray his anxiety. “What face?”

“That one. The quiet one like you’ve shut off. You’re supposed to be loud and expressive.” Derek’s hands bounce in the air to illustrate his point.

Stiles rolls his eyes and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. What’s he supposed to say to that?

Derek closes the distance he put between them and gently cups his hands around the base of Stiles’ neck. Derek sweeps his thumbs over the ridges of Stiles’ exposed clavicles and presses their foreheads together. And fuck, that’s unnerving. Kissing would be less intimidating because they could hide from each other by closing their eyes.

Werewolves have weird ways of displaying intimacy—Stiles is starting to get that. Erica shows Boyd her affection by bumping her hip against his. Scott rubbed the underside of his chin over Allison’s head, shoulders, and sometimes her hands. And Derek does this—this _eye trap_. Looking away seems like an act of rejection, so Stiles can’t seek an escape without expressing something he doesn’t feel. He can’t do anything but meet Derek’s stare head on.

This isn’t that cheesy ‘lovers staring longing into each other’s eyes’ bullshit. Oh on. This is a fucking Jedi mind trick. It turns Stiles inside out—his stomach flips over itself like it’s exploring the possibilities of zero-gravity. His mouth goes dry. His heart kicks into overdrive and pumps blood through his veins at such an alarming rate that he could fucking burst. All of his nerves hone in on the heat seeping into his forehead and how Derek’s breath tickles his lips. The ‘eye trap’ devastates his will to fight.

“I have to get back to work.” The air from Derek’s words brushes against Stiles’ mouth. Fuck, that’s cheating. He doesn’t really know how it’s cheating, but it’s cheating on principle. “So we’ll have to talk later. Consider yourself temporarily banned from pack business.”

Nope—nothing. No rebuttal comes to mind. If anything, Stiles feels almost underwhelmed and compliant. _Almost_. He’s compliant in the way that he won’t argue at this present moment. It’s not the same thing as submission, but he’ll allow Derek to believe that it is.

“Temporarily,” he repeats.

“Temporarily,” Derek agrees. “Now go home. Don’t go anywhere near the Preserve. Keep yourself safe.”

“Yeah. You too,” Stiles mumbles. He leans his head back to glance down at the line on Derek’s lower lip. Right—Stiles is supposed to call the shots if he wants something. Right. He plants a quick kiss on Derek’s lower lip and flees to his jeep.

His face is so fucking red when he swings into the driver’s seat. Scott says something—but it immediately abandons Stiles’ memory. He can’t even pull together the ability to _listen_ , not with the noise in his head.

***

Too many feelings crash through his brain like the growing waves at high tide. He can’t separate one emotion from the next. He thinks he’s ashamed but he doesn’t know why. He gave in to Derek too easily and that bothers him, but there’s some other blurry sensation nagging him. Maybe it’s the familiar ache of greed—he wants to know every inch of Derek, every speck of backstory—and Stiles has been trying to modify that impulse to fall within acceptable social standards for a _long_ fucking time.

In his epic failure to gain Lydia’s attention, he learned that pushing for information is just as repelling as it is ineffective. He can’t expose people to the same rigorous inquiry that he applies to his research projects. But the desire to know everything is still there, still sharp and demanding. And the fact that there are things Derek will never divulge kills Stiles a little. It’s a headache inducing tug of war; he has to protect Derek from his greed if he wants to stay sane and happy. There’s value in what Stiles has now—he doesn’t need to possess anyone.

No, that’s not what’s bothering him either.

“ _Stiles_!” Scott shouts from some vortex outside of Stiles’ brain.

His hand instinctively jerks the wheel but it doesn’t move. Scott’s hand grips it and keeps them steady on the road.

“You just blew through a stop sign,” Scott says.

Stiles’ hands are shaking.

“And I can’t tell whose house we’re going to. If you were going to drop me off, you passed the turn to my street ages ago. And the one to yours,” Scott adds.

“Fuck. Sorry. I shifted to autopilot there.” Stiles releases a shuddering breath. He pulls to the side of the road and waits for the two cars in the opposing lane to pass before pulling behind them.

In his periphery, Stiles sees Scott drum his fingers on the outer edge of the cup holder. “Look, maybe you should let me drive? You seem pretty distracted.”

“I’m fine.” Stiles clears his throat. “Seriously. After I drop you off, I’ll be driving home alone anyway.”

Scott frowns. “Or _I_ could drive you home and then run home, which would take me like five minutes. Or I could drive you home and stay over. Look at that— _options_.”

Given the news that a cross between Peter Pan’s shadow and Hannibal Lecter is targeting him, Stiles should be more receptive toward the idea of company. But he isn’t. He knows he’ll think about his mom, which will probably result in a few panic attacks. He and Scott are close, but Stiles will always prefer no audience even when it comes to the person he trusts the most. He’d also like to deal with the nagging emotion that’s been bothering him in private—now that he has finally identified it.

It’s a masochistic sense of relief.

He always thought he should be punished for what happened to his mom. After eight years, this is it. It feels fucking awful and vindicating and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with that. He wonders if Derek feels the same way.

Who’s he kidding? Derek is the patron saint of guilty consciences.

One thing’s for sure though: Scott wouldn’t understand. Scott would try to sweet talk Stiles’ guilt out of him, tell him that he doesn’t deserve blame or punishment, he’s a good person, it was an accident— which Stiles knows deep down. He really does. But there’s no rationale behind guilt most of the time. It suffocates you any way it can because it can.

Stiles turns left onto Scott’s Street.

When he pulls up beside Scott’s driveway, Scott doesn’t move to get out. “Listen. Are you sure you don’t need me to stay with you?”

Stiles purses his lips and shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll be fine. Lights, a ring of ash, a pocket full of posies—I’m good.”

“Referencing the black plague. Very reassuring.” Scott rests his fingers on the door handle and holds still like he’s waiting for Stiles to change his mind. “If you need my help—”

“I have you and four other werewolves on speed dial. This is not my first day at school. I’ve got a lunchbox packed with plenty of poison and a nice, sharp object to stab bullies to death with. Seriously. Go play fetch with yourself.”

Scott narrows his eyes. “I’m not sure if that was a euphemism, a dog joke, or both.”

“How’s this? Chase your tail. Bury a bone. Fluff a pillow. That clear enough?” Stiles grins and shoos Scott out.

Scott finally listens but he does this awkward, backwards walk to his front door in order to keep Stiles in sight. It’s ridiculous and shouldn’t be so endearing. At any rate, Stiles leaves Scott on his doorstep and heads home.

***

Two panic attacks, an hour of sharpening his new fire poker, a solo dinner of mac and cheese, and two hours of aimless internet surfing later, Stiles sets up his mountain ash experiment. He stuffs the rubber tube full of ash and mostly succeeds at stapling it around his bed. The two ends of the tube are situated under his bed about an inch apart with a line of ash to connect them. That way, he can be sure the circle is complete. Because he wasn’t able to test this technique out on Scott, Stiles doesn’t disturb the ash that’s already lying on his carpet. With any luck, he’ll be double protected.

It’s almost 3AM when his mild insomnia gives out. He falls asleep with his light on.

***

He wakes up in darkness.


	5. ENDORPHINS

Wind whistles outside Stiles’ window. It’s the type of wind that clips dead branches off of old trees and sends them sailing into power lines. That’s his guess as to why the power is out, anyway. Seems like the supernatural hasn’t had its fill of fucking with the weather. Super.

Anxiety creeps into his lungs. He gropes for his phone to check the time and notices a pair of red eyes in the corner of his room by the door.

There are no fucking words to describe how fast his heart jumps into his throat.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Stiles hisses, pressing a hand to his chest. Why the fuck do people even do that? It doesn’t magically settle their heart rate. He stares at the red eyes. “Derek? What the fuck are you doing? Are you an idiot? Why don’t you have a flashlight? It’s—” The words die in his mouth. _It’s dangerous to be in the dark. You’ll get attacked_.

If that was Derek, then where was the ‘Avenging Angel?’

Terror shoots from his lungs to the top of his skull.

When Stiles was a kid and believed in ghosts, he played a game. He would sit in the dark and challenge his mom’s ‘spirit’ to show herself. He would twist his memories to suit his fantasy and convince himself that certain objects weren’t where he originally left them. While he waited in the dark with his eyes peeled wide, there was always this suspended anticipation that something _might_ happen.

He feels like he’s playing that game now.

“Derek. Say something,” he breathes.

The owner of the red eyes doesn’t speak. Of course it doesn’t. Because Derek wouldn’t be stupid enough to sit in the dark without protection. He wouldn’t be cruel enough to terrorize Stiles this way. If Derek was here, he’d be busy fending off the Avenging Angel. That isn’t Derek.

Adrenaline melts fear into bravado. Clearly, he’s safe behind the ash barrier. So here he is. Just chilling with Freddy Krueger.

He loses his grip on a manic giggle.

Oh God, that song. “I always feel like somebody’s watching me,” he sings.

The red-eyed stare doesn’t waver or respond.

And Stiles doesn’t really know what to do. If he calls anyone over, it’ll just leave, which _should_ be preferable but he’s a little entranced by that stare. He’s fascinated by its very existence, like he’s witnessing a farfetched wish being granted. If he stares long enough, he can almost convince himself that those eyes are a pair of LED lights. Almost—but not quite, which makes sleep out of the question. He could just watch it until morning comes.

Or he could try to get a look at it with his phone.

There are grades of shadow. Some cast shadows are still in light, so maybe the weak light from Stiles’ phone won’t push away the Avenging Angel. And if it does, that’s really no skin off his back. Oh, _ha_ —gruesome puns really aren’t funny.

Stiles picks up his phone from beside his pillow and prepares to take a picture. When the corner of his room pops up in the display screen, empty, he figures it’s like those vampire legends—maybe the Avenging Angel can’t be captured on film. But then he glances up from his phone and finds the room empty.

Once again, he should be relieved that it appears to be gone, but all he can feel is that sense of suspended anticipation, a held breath, the silent part in a horror movie that alerts the viewer that something loud is about to happen.

A smell hits him. It’s not the offensive smell of spoiled food, but it does reek of decomposition, like wet, decaying wood mixed with the dull sting of mildew, earth, and fungi.

Stiles looks up. The red eyes are on the ceiling.

His bravado vanishes. Blood pounds in his ears. He just received his cue to exhale but he can’t breathe. But he’s safe. He’s safe—he’s safe—he’s safe. It can’t get to him. He waves his phone’s thin, blue light over the ceiling in an attempt to banish the thing again. It seems to work—the eyes disappear.

Fuck. He forgot flashlights. Stupid—he thought to grab them and got sidetracked. _Fuck_.

There’s a quiet clatter, the sound of something small and plastic hitting his desk chair. And then an explosive bang—the sound of his desk being flipped over and dragged across the room. There’s a storm of shuffling. Stiles shines his phone around his room and finds a collection of his things being used to prop his desk against the window and block it. And then there’s another sound in the dark—a metallic snap and something rolling across the carpet. His doorknob.

And beside his dismantled doorknob is the Avenging Angel. All this time, it wasn’t scared of Stiles’ measly light. It was playing a game.

Like Derek said, it’s a shade, an ‘inverse’ force, so naturally it has taken a similar form to the Trúma.

Its eyes are glassy and reflective, like the glare of a cat’s eyes. They look small in its wide, warped skull. Where the Trúma had a sophisticated symmetry to its face, the Avenging Angel’s features are disfigured. Its beak is short and too irregular to define with an existing shape. Like the Trúma, the Avenging Angel’s beak is separated into two parts, but the split of the mouth is massive, nearly slicing the face in half. The teeth are jagged and long in some places and human in others. Some teeth hang from the roof of the mouth. It doesn’t have arms—not in any way Stiles classifies arms. The appendages have the anatomy of bird wings but lack everything except the bone. Undoubtedly, its arms were the instruments used to dissect Daniel Chamberlain.

Stiles doesn’t think—he doesn’t waste any more time—he calls Derek. And then it immediately strikes him that Derek is such a stupid choice. Scott is closer, more than capable of handling this, and not a fucking target.

Derek answers on the second ring. “Stiles?”

“Hey,” Stiles says. All the pent up air in his lungs leaves in a sudden whoosh. Relief has the opposite effect of fear; it gives him so much oxygen that his head swims.

“What is it?” Derek is terse and commanding, which is usually not something Stiles appreciates. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles stares at the Avenging Angel—the Trúma’s dark alter ego, whatever the fuck it is—and swallows hard. “I lost power,” he rasps. “And I have a friend in here with me.” If he sounds pathetic, he doesn’t care. He reaches for the fire poker propped against the wall beside his bed, but doesn’t make any move to attack or throw it.

“I’m on my way. Stay where you are.” Derek hangs up.

“Yeah. Sure,” Stiles says to the dead line.

***

Scott busts down Stiles’ door three minutes later, wielding two flashlights and a deafening roar.

The Avenging Angel passes through the wall without a fuss. Since Scott can’t cross the ash barrier, he tosses the flashlights onto Stiles’ bed. Stiles takes them and the huge batteries inside the flashlights rattle against the plastic walls because his hands are shaking so badly. He’s pale and shell-shocked, responding with small hums when Scott asks if he’s alright, what happened, why didn’t you have a flashlight, and did you see it?

“Derek called me—why didn’t you?” Scott asks.

That sparks Stiles’ anger. “I was a little preoccupied with the grim reaper rearranging my furniture. Sorry if I wasn’t exactly weighing who was the prime candidate to come to my rescue.” Except he did after he made his choice. So that’s a lie. Stiles wonders if his heartbeat betrays him. It might be too erratic to read right now.

Scott holds up his hands. “Yeah, okay. I got that. That’s fine,” he says with enough diplomacy to calm a raging bull. “You know that there was nothing you could do and that’s okay, right? There was nothing Derek could do either. He needed help too.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t, like, make you useless or helpless, you know? So don’t go thinking that, okay?”

Stiles tightens his grip around the flashlights. “I know. I wasn’t.” Except he was.

Engaging someone with a lot of questions is a negotiation technique or something—makes whoever is being asked feel like they’re in control, like they have all the right answers. Too bad Stiles can’t reap the benefits of the power Scott is trying to give him because Scott’s intent is so transparent. Stiles _does_ feel powerless. Scott gets an A for effort though.

Stiles really doesn’t want to dwell on the implications of calling Derek first, but when Derek and Isaac arrive five minutes later, clarity strikes with a vengeance.

Stiles can’t believe how much Derek feels like safety. He shouldn’t be Stiles’ security blanket—it should be Scott— _Scott_ , the kid he has known for _thirteen fucking years_. Scott has always been his go-to man and Stiles doesn’t even know how or when Derek broke in deep enough to change that. Or even if he has changed that yet. It just feels inevitable.

On another note, he realizes his room is in shambles. His door is off its hinges and missing a doorknob. That’ll be fun to explain to his dad. ‘So while you were off searching for a murderer and living off fumes and shitty coffee, I decided to throw a crazy, illegal party. Sorry, we’re out of whisky. What do you mean I’m grounded until I’m a hundred and two?’

“I can’t believe you didn’t grab a flashlight,” Derek hisses with the tight, clipped tone of someone ready to explode. “You fucking _idiot_ , you absolute _moron_.”

Stiles doesn’t know if he finds it funny or mortifying that those words are turning into aggressive terms of endearment. They’re insults that intentionally hit wide of their mark because he knows they’re Derek’s automatic response to helpless worry.

“Blaming the victim here,” Stiles mumbles. His voice catches a little. He’s still reeling from the adrenaline crash.

Isaac stands by Stiles’ broken door and holds the beam of his flashlight over Derek, probably for protection. In that light, Stiles sees Derek bite his lip and hears his sharp, full exhale.

“Guys, get this cleaned up,” Derek says quietly. He moves toward Stiles’ bed but stops at the barrier. For a moment, he rests a hand and his forehead against the invisible wall, before turning around to do whatever can be done about the broken door.

***

The wind is still howling outside Stiles’ window. He doesn’t know if that means the Avenging Angel is in the area or if this is a general, town-wide phenomenon.

Stiles gathers his courage and swallows his guilt. “Derek—maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to stay with you. For a little while.”

Now his room is in tolerable condition. The door is a somewhat lost cause. Derek re-screwed the hinges with his claws and managed to set the door upright, but it will topple over the moment anyone tries to use it for anything more than decoration.

Isaac looks up from dropping the last of Stiles’ pens into his desk drawer, eyebrows raised high. Scott’s face flickers with bald hurt, and that stabs at Stiles’ conscience. He doesn’t mean for his decision to seem like a lack of confidence or an act of replacement.

“I don’t want to lead that thing into your house,” he tells Scott. “Your mom’s a nurse—I don’t know if she’s had any patients die under her watch and has any lingering guilt that would make her a target too. You can’t protect the both of us.” Except for the fact that if Melissa did feel that way, she’d probably be dead by now, it’s a logical and honest assessment, but it’s not the actual reason Stiles decided against going to Scott’s. Stiles just wants to be near Derek. He radiates safety—possibly something more than that. He radiates something that Stiles wants to hook his fingers inside and _breathe_. Maybe it’s a weird chemical reaction; two people with similar problems and understandings collide and create the perfect haven.

If Scott detected a lie, he doesn’t show it. He nods and reluctantly accepts Stiles’ explanation. “Give me your keys. I’ll take the jeep to my house.”

Stiles removes them from his bedside table and throws them to Scott.

Derek eyes him with a surprising amount of patience. “This will be tough to hide from your dad.”

“I don’t care right now.” Stiles sweeps a hand over his forehead and into his hair. He really doesn’t want to think about anything complicated.

“Alright,” Derek says. “Scott, you’ll have to drive us. We ran here like you did.”

Stiles gets up to pack his things.

***

“So,” Stiles says lightly as he, Derek, and Isaac enter the apartment. “I’m guessing I get the couch again?”

He imagines Derek saying, ‘No, Stiles, you can have my bed. With me in it.’

“Sure,” is actually what Derek says. Not like Stiles really expected an invitation.

Stiles throws himself against the couch. He drums his fingers on the leg he’s bouncing up and down. His nerves are still singing. Everything feels wild and out of control. He should be tired at five in the morning but he’s not. He’s too jittery and he just wants to sit up with someone and unravel the mass of shit in his head.

Isaac heads to his room with a jaw-cracking yawn.

Before Derek has the chance to do the same, Stiles asks. “Do you have work tomorrow?”

Derek turns away from his door to look at Stiles. “Yeah.”

Stiles can’t believe he’s going to ask something so needy. “Do you think you could call in sick? Or would your boss call bullshit because he knows you’re a werewolf?”

The corners of Derek’s mouth quirk. “Why do you think my boss knows that?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and pulls his legs onto the couch only to drop his feet back on the floor. “Because they stockpile ammunition against the supernatural like they’re some sort of zombie survivalist organization? Why do you even work in a place that looks like it’s run by hunters?”

Derek scratches above his lip to cover up a smile. “It’s not run by hunters. It’s actually run by Deaton’s brother-in-law, Chandler Morrell. And yeah, he knows we’re werewolves.”

Stiles scowls. “He knows you’re the alpha of this territory but won’t allow you flexible hours to mentor your pack? Dude. What a dick.”

Derek shrugs and takes a seat beside Stiles. “Not really. He doesn’t privilege my responsibilities over humans. He wants to keep things equal. I respect that.”

Stiles sighs. He draws his knees to his chest and slumps against the armrest. He can’t ease the restless tingling in his nerves. “Can you tell him this is an emergency, or something?”

Derek slides closer and runs his hand from Stiles’ elbow to his shoulder. “ _Is_ this an emergency? Even if the power goes out, we have battery operated lights in every room. You’ll be protected one hundred percent of the time.”

Stiles props his left elbow on the armrest and lays his knuckles over his eyebrow. “It’s not really about that. I think I will literally go out of my mind if I’m by myself. And I know there’s a chance Isaac might be here, but, like, he’s not exactly one for conversation. Sorry, man,” he says because he knows Isaac can hear him. “I’ll get stuck in my head and I _really_ don’t want to be stuck in my head.”

Derek breathes beside him for a few minutes. “Alright. He already knows what’s going on but I can tell him I need some personal time to handle things.” He grips Stiles’ shoulder before rising to his feet and disappearing into his bedroom. He returns a moment later with a thin cotton sheet and a pillow. “Here. Try to get some sleep.”

Stiles stares at the wall. The lamp is still on and there’s a flashlight at the foot of the couch. He takes it and his fire poker beside it—which is also pinned to the foot of the couch by his backpack—and cradles both objects against his chest. Soon the lamp won’t be necessary. The sun is rising.

***

Stiles’ mind reaches partial consciousness when he hears the front door open and slam shut. Someone arriving, his groggy mind supplies.

“Ah,” says Peter’s unwelcome, disembodied voice. “I see your illegal boyfriend slept over. And he’s in the dog house? Trouble in paradise?”

If Stiles didn’t hate Peter so much, that would be worthy of a small giggle-snort.

“Find anything?” Derek asks, not rising to the bait.

Peter sighs. “Nothing. And if your only lead is Mimi, then we have a problem. None of us can approach her without the threat of being ingested.”

“She left Scott alone,” Derek points out.

“Well, that’s probably because he was in the company of our would-be emissary,” Peter says with false politeness.

“And why would that matter?”

Coming out of sleep delays Stiles’ mental processes. His mind springs to life when it reviews the word ‘ingested.’ That’s right—Mimi could eat them any time, meaning there was a key flaw in Derek’s logic: Mimi didn’t have to trick them into backing out or get them killed to nullify her promise because they never fulfilled their end of the bargain in the first place. Which means she would have no reason to play a game. Peter remains the prime suspect.

“Who knows when it comes to faeries?” Peter sighs.

Stiles cracks an eye open. “Done any ritualistic sacrifices lately?”

“Stiles,” Derek warns.

Peter turns away from where Derek is seated in the armchair and smiles down at Stiles. “Derek? Won’t you please muzzle your bitch?”

“Out,” Derek demands. There’s a warning edge of alpha voice.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Gladly.” He pauses by the door. “Oh—and try not to make too many _messes_. Other people do live here, you know.”

“Asshole,” Stiles mutters once Peter has shut the door behind him.

Derek growls at him—a serious, werewolf growl. But it seems less like a threat and more like a bid for Stiles’ attention. “This really needs to stop. I can’t keep separating you two every time you see each other.”

Stiles shrugs. He doesn’t bother to defend himself and risk starting a battle he knows won’t go anywhere. He’d rather enjoy his time with Derek and not waste it by setting up a verbal obstacle course.

Stiles pulls his knees to his chest to make room on the couch. Derek takes the hint and moves to sit beside him.

“So, what do you have for food?” Stiles asks.

***

It turns out that Derek doesn’t have much. He even lacks basic junk food. Stiles shudders at the thought of a pantry without potato chips. It’s a miracle Isaac and Derek aren’t dead. Peter isn’t so miraculous—the man is a bottom feeder and probably dines on garbage like a rabid raccoon. Stiles has seen Scott’s appetite before and after The Bite, so he can personally attest to the fucking monster that has become his calorie intake.

Stiles tells Derek as much. “Why the fuck do you only have half a loaf of bread and one slice of cheese in this fridge?”

He closes the fridge door and opens it again like more food will magically materialize because he wants it to. He swears this is a practice that hungry people engage in every time their fridge is empty. Intuitively, they know they’re asking for the impossible and yet they always expect something to actually happen.

Derek leans against the wall on the other end of the kitchenette. “I have more than that in there.”

“You really don’t,” Stiles insists. There’s half a gallon of milk but that doesn’t count. Everyone has milk or some non-animal substitute of it. “You don’t have the budget for take-out every night, so what do you eat?”

Derek flashes his elongated canines in a quick, leering grin. “You could say I eat for free almost every night.”

With his fingers still closed around the refrigerator handle, Stiles stares. “Oh my God, you eat innocent, helpless animals, don’t you?”

Derek looks absurdly proud of himself. “Yes, I do.”

“But you do cook what you catch, right?” Stiles really needs to hear a ‘yes’ for the sake of keeping what’s in his stomach _in_ his stomach.

Derek’s eyes flash red. It’s a playful gesture—at least, that’s definitely how it comes across. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever seen the others use their eyes for anything other than a show of aggression.

“Nope,” Derek says. Humor forms creases in the outer corners of his eyes and he can’t seem to dislodge the smug, entertained quirk of his lips.

Stiles gags. Even he can’t tell if the sound is for show or not. “Ugh! I put my tongue in your mouth!”

Derek laughs—and not just the chuckle that has to be physically wrenched out of him every now and then. Derek holds his arms over his stomach and pitches forward, mouth wide, open, and carefree.

“I brush my teeth, you idiot,” he says.

“And you better fucking floss and swish mouthwash for like an hour.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I get it. I’ll go to the store. What do you want?”

Stiles quickly assembles a grocery list for a few meals he can put together. After all, if Derek prefers the juicy grossness of warm, raw meat, Stiles doesn’t think that says much about Derek’s cooking abilities.

When Derek grabs his keys and exits the apartment, Stiles has free reign. Aside from the muffled drone of a neighbor’s TV, it’s completely silent—and silence presses down on all the nerves that shatter under too much pressure. He smothers every panicky thought that leads back to the Avenging Angel or Mimi. He could always turn to the internet for a distraction, but that doesn’t seem like such a wise idea since he’ll probably start researching ways to kill a shadow, come up with no results, and freak out. He looks for something else—anything else.

He sneaks into Derek’s room.

Well—it’s not really sneaking considering he won’t be able to hide his scent, therefore any lie to cover up his tracks would be a waste of breath.

Derek’s wrinkled sheets drape over the bottom half of his mattress. Stiles is surprised to see that Derek actually has a simple, wooden bedframe; he always figured that Derek would just lay a cheap mattress on the floor like a homeless squatter.

There isn’t much else in the room. A bureau sits in the left hand corner. A window on the right wall throws a square of sunlight across the unremarkable, off-white carpet, just shy of the edge of the bed, and a pile of papers and a printer sit beneath the sill. There’s a tall fan facing what Stiles assumes is the side Derek sleeps on and there’s a black, cheap table stand beside the bed with a few drawers in it. He chooses to investigate.

So he has absolutely no regards for privacy after all the houses he’s had to break into and the things he’s had to steal for the sake of the greater good. He might’ve developed an unsavory addiction to snooping.

Stiles pulls open the first drawer and finds an unopened box of condoms and a bottle of lube. Heat fills his face. He picks up the box and turns it over in his hands before placing it back and closing the drawer.

Well. Clearly he’s not the only one ready for something to happen.

***

Later, when Derek returns with the groceries and everything is put away, with the exception of what Stiles uses for lunch, they lie down on the couch to watch a movie because why the fuck not? It’s not like they know what they’re doing and how to kill or stop the Avenging Angel, so why shouldn’t they waste time by relaxing and allow the burden of not _fucking knowing anything_ to lurk behind the curtain? That’s the transparent rationale Stiles clings to, at any rate.

Stiles places his laptop on the end of the coffee table that’s within viewing range. He’s sandwiched between Derek’s back and the couch, and settles his left arm over Derek’s lower ribs because he’s sick of stabbing himself with his own elbow. The position isn’t as awkward as he thought it might be—he’s not overwhelmed by Derek’s attentive scrutiny and that’s more than enough to put him at ease.

Derek is wearing a flimsy tank top and his cotton pajama bottoms. It’s really nothing particularly provocative for Derek, but all Stiles can think is, ‘I know you have a box of condoms in your room and I think we should go in there and use them. And I don’t mean for balloon animals.’ Fortunately, his dry throat saves him from blurting that out loud.

Stiles explains how he found the movie they’re about to watch during one of his anxiety ridden internet searches. “It’s some super rare, low budget werewolf movie by an independent group. I think it’s called The Fourteenth Moon? Anyway—they only had enough money to distribute a few thousand DVDs or something.” Stiles clicks the play button. “But then there’s illegal downloading and voila.”

“Fourteenth moon? Huh,” Derek says. A hint of interest catches in his voice.

The movie begins with a girl driving on a desert highway at night. She slams on her breaks at the sight of a surprisingly decent CGI wolf with a skull for a head, dashing through the middle of the road.

“ _Huh_ ,” Derek says again. And that’s definitely the expression of dawning realization.

“What?” Stiles jabs Derek’s stomach with his index finger.

Derek laughs. “You _would_ find a werewolf movie produced by an actual werewolf.”

“What! Seriously?” Stiles slides a little further up the couch to get a better view of his laptop screen. “How can you tell?”

“The fourteenth moon is an old werewolf legend.” Derek shifts his weight, causing Stiles’ hand to slip from Derek’s ribs down to his navel. “If a fourteenth moon appears in the sky, a werewolf higher than an alpha will be born. It’s pretty much the origin story for a wolf god. The skull-headed wolf is part of it. This story is deeply rooted in old packs—no one else would catch on except us.”

Stiles frowns. “Isn’t it kind of shitty to reproduce something so culturally significant?”

Derek shrugs. “Not really. Humans wouldn’t get it so it’s not like it’s in danger of exposing us and it’s not something that would give hunters an advantage. It’s just a story. It’s,” Derek pauses, “I think it’s _for_ us. It’s a nice change.”

Stiles hums. He supposes it would be nice for a werewolf to see an accurate representation of their world to contrast the popular ‘werewolves are mindless beasts’ trope. But truthfully, he’s mostly preoccupied with giving his ego a nice, proud pat on the back for uncovering such a unique find.

Derek must be feeling restless because he squirms against the couch again. It’s somewhat strange considering Derek doesn’t carelessly fidget. It’s the predator in him—every movement speaks of some intent, whether it’s to threaten or pacify. Stiles doesn’t think Derek is even conscious of how communicative his body language is half the time. Actually, Derek probably speaks more effectively with his body than he does with words.

And, again, Derek’s movement makes Stiles’ hand brush across his stomach. At first, he doesn’t think much of it until Derek does it for the fourth time in fifteen minutes.

Stiles grins into Derek’s shoulder and slips his hand under the hem of Derek’s shirt to stroke his abdomen in wide, rough circles. Derek’s stomach bunches into a tight, thick wall of muscle.

Derek throws a disgruntled look over his shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Stiles slaps his hand over Derek’s stomach with extra force—not to hurt, just to produce a loud noise. “With the way you were moving, I figured you wanted your belly rubbed but were too proud to ask for something so...domestic.” He was going to say ‘canine’ but Derek would punch a hole in his face for making such an overt dog joke.

Derek raises his eyebrows. “You’re lucky that my conscience won’t allow me to beat you within an inch of your life. But my mercy doesn’t extend to your jeep.”

Stiles continues to knead his fingers along the pronounced dips and curves of Derek’s abdominal muscles. “Funny. I hear words coming out of your mouth but none of them disagree with me.”

“Shut up and watch the damn movie.”

Stiles obeys and focuses on the laptop screen. His attentions melt into an unconscious, meditative rhythm. He traces the crease between Derek’s abs and then lower, scratching his fingers over the thin strip of hair ending at Derek’s navel. Stiles entertains the thought of dragging his fingers lower, all the way between Derek’s legs. He could jerk Derek off on the couch and _really_ give Peter something to complain about (and probably Isaac too—small sacrifices for a little satisfactory revenge).

Derek wiggles against the couch and settles.

Stiles bites his lip and presses his burning face against the armrest above him. He does his best to chase away all thoughts of sex, but that’s not easy with Derek’s ass perfectly positioned against his pelvis.

And apparently, the movie isn’t in favor of him cooling down. As the plot progresses, there’s a lot of graphic, Game of Thrones worthy sex. He isn’t sure if he unintentionally downloaded porn again. And the full frontal of the main dude doesn’t dissolve that suspicion.

“So this story,” Stiles interrupts the female lead’s high, breathy moans. “Is this a modern interpretation or was it really a Disney classic?”

Derek huffs a laugh. “Actually, this is a little tamer than the original.”

Stiles whistles low, stunned by the idea of something more graphic than a wolfed out dude fucking the female lead on all fours at some sacred plot in the middle of the desert. There’s a creepy druid cult cutting the moon cycle by a week—and seriously, how the fuck because _physics_ —enabling the fourteenth moon of the year to arrive. In the meantime, the female lead and main dude must be reenacting the werewolf kama sutra. Because that’s—that’s different. And very bendy. And maybe worth trying.

And not helping.

Stiles tries to push as close to the back of the couch as possible to prevent accidentally pressing his erection into Derek’s ass. Not like that’s going to resolve this dilemma. Derek is a fucking furnace and Stiles’ body absorbs Derek’s body heat like a greedy sponge. Stiles’ restless energy translates to his fingers, like giving Derek’s stomach a deeper, more vigorous massage is going to disperse the tension coiling inside him or something.

If Stiles had the brilliant foresight to watch this movie _first_ and then learn its contents, he might’ve saved himself some unnecessary humiliation. Okay— so he probably would’ve shown it anyway, but at least he would’ve been able to anticipate and inhibit his body’s reactions.

Derek makes a small sound—something like a hum and a breath—at the back of his throat before clearing it away with a dry cough. And then he rolls his hip into the cushion, shifting the stretch of his legs and readjusting how they lay on top of each other. Stiles’ eyes jump from the marathon sex scene on his laptop to what little he can see of Derek’s face. His ears are beat red and his breathing is slow, too precise and contained to be natural. Stiles levers a little further up the couch in an attempt to improve his vantage point and sees Derek’s hands clenched into fists in front of his chest.

Fuck the movie—Derek is far more interesting to watch. Stiles lowers the trajectory of his fingers, scraping blunt nails through the slightly thicker trail of hair two inches below Derek’s navel. Now that he’s listening beneath the sound coming from his laptop, Stiles hears the hitch in Derek’s breathing.

Is he getting off on this? How long has he been squirming in his skin?

Stiles can’t ask for permission to touch more of him. That would surrender power and maintain the status quo, meaning Derek might shut down—he wouldn’t like Stiles relinquishing complete control over the situation. Once again, something as simple as touch feels like a game of minesweeper. Not that Stiles blames or resents Derek for the obstacles that riddle their relationship. He never would. It’s just what they are. If connecting with Derek turns into a game of chess, Stiles is fine with that. He’s pretty good at chess, after all.

It’s not quite a question, but Stiles plays with the hair above the waistband of Derek’s pajama bottoms, leaving an opening for Derek to refuse if he wants to.

He doesn’t.

Tentatively, Stiles prods his fingers beneath Derek’s pajamas and feels Derek’s pubic hair brush along his palm. It’s immediately apparent that Derek isn’t wearing any underwear. Stiles doesn’t know if that’s odd or not, doesn’t know if that indicates that Derek was planning for something to happen or if this is just how he lounges around the apartment. Stiles doesn’t really care to ask—he’s busy with the sweat-damp, feverish skin under his fingers.

He pinches the skin in the crease of Derek’s inner thigh, proud and somewhat awed at the general, innocuous act of touch and how Derek’s reactions, his sounds and fidgeting limbs, seem weirdly universal, natural, and more open as a result. Derek arches back against him and that’s truly a fucking sensation to behold. And the way he breathes, “ _Stiles,_ ” makes everything flash white hot. The rise and fall of Derek’s chest loses its smooth, predictable pattern, and Stiles’ confidence soars at the heady realization that he _can_ do this—he can break Derek open with his fingers.

He grabs Derek’s cock in a firm, sure hold, without much of a plan on how to bring him off—well, aside from the obvious. He’s content just to explore for now. He slides the ring of his fingers from the root of Derek’s cock to the tip, smudging the liquid leaking from the head with a twist of his thumb.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek hisses. His breath stutters as he bows his spine again.

Stiles can feel all the minute twitches in Derek’s back muscles along his chest.

He swallows hard, presses his mouth into the back of Derek’s neck—not as a kiss really, just as another place and another way to touch—and he rocks forward, cupping Derek with the shallow curve of his hips. He’s already flush with Derek’s ass, so the movement is little more than a nudge—a way to test the feeling and Derek’s reaction. With a soft sigh, Derek pushes the edge of his forehead into the seat cushion and restlessly shuffles the stretch of his legs again. It’s a motion just shy of writhing.

Stiles grinds harder against Derek’s ass in time with another unhurried, teasing pump of Derek’s cock. They can’t move much on the couch, so Derek doesn’t quite meet Stiles’ thrusts halfway, but he does roll his hips back to increase the range of friction. And fuck, that’s good—Derek applies just enough pressure to ease the insistent ache in Stiles’ dick.

With the movie as background noise, Stiles ruts against Derek in earnest. He slides his hand along Derek’s cock slowly, taking the opportunity to catalogue every fine detail, noting the veins he can detect through his fingers, the feeling of Derek twitching in his hand, the ways to make Derek curse, and the clever twists more valuable than that—the little ways that make Derek try to choke back the sounds creeping up his throat and stiffen from head to toe. Derek’s instinct to grapple for control is a blaring tell—Stiles discovered buttons to poke, nerves to fray. If he wants to crack Derek open, those little tricks will get him there.

Thanks to the dimensions he mapped with his hand, Stiles gains the ability to accurately imagine Derek inside of him. The image is so clear, so visceral, that he bucks _hard_ , forcing Derek’s body to shift an inch forward. Sweat and pre-come adheres Stiles’ underwear to his constricted cock—he hasn’t come yet, but he’s getting there.

Now the room is filled with their gasps, grunts, hisses, stifled moans, and sighs. Oddly enough, Stiles thinks the movie is at a point with a lot of exposition—he doesn’t really know—doesn’t really care—the panting breaths scraping their way out of Derek’s lungs and the liquid dribbling over and between Stiles’ fingers are far more worthy of his attention.

“Ah—hang on a second,” Derek gasps and pushes to sit up.

The request doesn’t register right away. There are too many endorphins clouding Stiles’ ability to connect his motor skills with what goes in his ears. He feels Derek’s pajama bottoms stick to his knuckles as he reaches down lower, cupping and squeezing Derek’s balls. When Stiles’ brain catches up with him and he moves to retract his hand, it’s too late—Derek shoves a guttural moan into the armrest and comes all over Stiles’ retreating wrist.

“Before _that_ happens,” Derek mutters. He exhales a trembling sigh and wipes a flustered hand over his beard.

For a moment, Stiles doesn’t breathe—the fucking surreal truth that he just jerked Derek off takes a generous minute to sink in. Of course, Stiles isn’t one to let painful awkwardness miss its full potential, so he lets his hand hover above Derek’s softening dick long enough to pay rent. Eventually, Stiles gathers his wits and extracts his hand, careful to keep from rubbing Derek’s come all over his clothes and pubic hair. Not like he’s already a complete mess, but fuck, it’s the thought that counts, right?

Derek drags his body into a seated position the way someone who’s trying to dislodge a wedgie might—gingerly and with an unwelcome, heightened awareness of their invisible condition.

Stiles very pointedly doesn’t stare at the semen cooling on his wrist. Time to go for broke—evasive maneuvers—redirect the spotlight. “That was faster than I thought it would be. Where’s that werewolf stamina I’ve heard so much about?” Stiles holds his sullied hand in the air as he rises on his knees, pivots, and reclines against the other armrest.

Derek blinks slowly. Lydia uses that expression all the time—it’s that blank, patient look that makes prey run ragged just trying to find out what it _means_. Of course it completely fails to intimidate, what with the glassy, sated sheen in Derek’s eyes and the rosy flush coloring his cheeks, nose, ears, and neck.

“Fast? I was hard for _nearly a fucking hour_.”

Stiles ducks his head to hide his glowing pride.

Derek snorts and then laughs, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Jesus—clean yourself up. I’m going to change.”

Both get off the couch in a state of physical discomfort—Derek may have come in his pants, but Stiles is still hard and waiting for his turn. Seriously, Derek’s bedside manner could use a bit more—well, a bit _more_. If Derek turns out to be a selfish lover, Stiles is going to have a talk with the universe about giving Derek muscular hands but not a compassionate dick.

Except that’s a stupid conclusion. Why else would Derek have those condoms?

Stiles approaches the kitchenette but Derek says, “No—if you get that down the sink, the others will smell it and then I’ll never hear the end of it. Use the bathroom.”

Fair enough. Stiles uses his left hand to turn the bathroom doorknob and the only thing on his mind is not getting semen on the light switch. He doesn’t think about how there are no windows in the bathroom or how using his left hand for the light switch would take extra time. He doesn’t think about light at all.

So when he takes one small step in the bathroom, the Avenging Angel is waiting for him, red eyes bright and close enough to touch.

But Derek is faster. He fists a hand in the back of Stiles’ shirt and yanks him into the light of the living room. The Avenging Angel only manages a small, half-hearted slice across Derek’s wrist when he slips his hand into the bathroom to flick the light on.

And just like that, the world and all its problems come crashing down. So long to willful, blissful ignorance.

Reality extinguishes any lingering desire. Stiles feels his blood scatter to the furthest corners of his body, leaving him off balance and empty in places that usually feel solid and reliable. That’s fear for you. And frustration. And helpless confusion. They all have this innate ability to eviscerate without making a single incision and they leave a trembling husk when they’re through.

All of the questions that Stiles has been trying to flatten into something paper-thin and pliant—something _weak_ —were shoved into some compartment in his mind and that compartment explodes like a balloon that has been forced to contain too much air.

His fears have so much _energy_ — _what the fuck are they going to do? How long can they keep this up?_ — too much energy to be caught and bound again.

Stiles doesn’t have a panic attack. He makes a joke.

“Huh. Well that was better than a cold shower.”

He laughs but it’s hollow. Derek probably doesn’t even hear it against the furious pounding in his chest.

Stiles leans into Derek’s side. He hasn’t moved—he just stands there like a grumpy boulder that exists to keep Stiles from stumbling to…wherever. Stiles steps into the bathroom and washes his hand with the door open and Derek disappears into his bedroom for the brief moment it takes to change into a new pair of pajama bottoms.

***

Stiles and Derek manage to avoid any discussion involving the elephant haunting the bathroom for the rest of the evening. Well—Stiles does broach the topic once, but he gets shut down with a dismissive ‘you’re banned from pack concerns, remember?’ That puts a sour taste in his mouth and an indignant spike in his blood pressure, but it’s not worth spoiling for a fight. Why criticize Derek for withholding information when he doesn’t even have any information to withhold?

They don’t resume other, sexier activities either. With the mood dead, Stiles finds it difficult to pick things up where they left off. He finds it difficult to want to, really. And if he isn’t initiating contact, Derek doesn’t have anything to reciprocate. So it’s all Simon says stop for now.

By eight o’clock, Isaac returns from his night shift. He sniffs the air and tosses a narrow-eyed glare at where Stiles and Derek are sitting on the couch, innocently googling (Stiles) and paying bills (Derek) on their laptops. Stiles offers an olive branch by cooking dinner. Isaac seems to find that acceptable.

They eat in the living room and it’s a quiet affair. Stiles definitely doesn’t compare it to those movies where some single dad introduces his new girlfriend (or boyfriend, as the case may be) to his lonely, jealous child. And when they eat dinner together, the child plots ways to make Daddy’s ‘special friend’ choke on a spoon. Or a steak knife.

Isaac finishes his last bite of lasagna and says, “I have earplugs and sound proof headphones, so if you two are going to fuck some more while I’m here, at least keep it out of public domain.”

A sip of water goes down Stiles’ throat the wrong way and he starts choking. Derek doesn’t comment or acknowledge Isaac’s request and continues to eat his food in silence, and if he isn’t bitching about being reprimanded by his beta—his darling little underling— then that’s usually as good as agreement.

“Thanks for the food,” Isaac says before putting his dishes in the sink and taking refuge in his bedroom.  

Not long after that, Derek heads to bed, leaving Stiles to battle four hours of insomnia, which he spends staring at the dull, white ceiling in the safety of the lamp and battery operated lights.

Every time he closes his eyes, he imagines those two red dots stalking closer. He tilts his chin into his chest and tries to spontaneously acquire x-ray vision to see through Derek’s door. Not being able to see him makes Stiles anxious. It’s not separation anxiety or cowardice—it’s that mentality people adopt when they’re thrown into an unfamiliar place with limited resources. They break down into survival mode, and sticking together is always top priority. Safety in numbers.

Being separated just doesn’t _feel_ right.

Snarling wordlessly, Stiles throws off his thin, cotton sheet and knocks on Derek’s door. He enters when he hears a groggy, muffled “come in.”

Derek props himself up on his hands, his shoulders bunching up to his ears. He blinks bleary, red eyes in Stiles’ general direction. Of course, Derek is shirtless and no fatal threat could ever dull Stiles’ instinctive flare of attraction.

“What is it? It’s,” Derek looks at the clock on the cheap, black table stand by his bed, “three in the morning.”

Stiles shrugs, not really sure what to say. ‘I couldn’t sleep’ sounds lame and sort of redundant; he’s standing in Derek’s room, wide awake—obviously he couldn’t sleep.

“I don’t know,” he says instead. And that feels like the purest truth he’s spoken in a long time.

Derek makes a low, tired sound in his throat and motions for Stiles to sit on the bed. Or get in, Stiles isn’t really sure—it’s a vague gesture. He goes, conscious of how this presents the perfect opportunity to continue what they were doing earlier. And he does want to continue. He needs some sort of distraction—something that will pull him back to himself and stop everything from feeling so slanted, like he’s trying to navigate through one of those crazy paintings with a million dead-end staircases. He’d give anything for dreamless sleep.

Stiles removes his holey socks, dropping them by the edge of the bed, and climbs in beside Derek. The fan is on and the weak wind beats against Stiles’ dry, scratchy eyes.

Derek turns away from him and towards the fan. “Sleep,” he mumbles.

But Stiles doesn’t want to sleep—well, he does, but he doesn’t want the type of sleep that will come to him if he attempts it now—more nightmares, panic attacks, and thinking.

Stiles lies down and traces Derek’s tattoo with his eyes and then with a finger. Derek flexes his shoulders but doesn’t respond.

“I have a theory about why there are so many sex scenes in horror movies,” Stiles says.

A disinterested grunt.

“Did you know that sexual arousal and fear is detected in the same part of your brain? When I found that out, I wondered if horror movies were trying to confuse your senses—make you feel horny when you’re scared or scared when you’re horny.”

Derek hums but it’s a sound without inflection, neither agreement, disagreement, or a ‘tell me more.’ It barely even implies a ‘yes—I’m sort of listening to you babble about nothing.’

Stiles covers Derek’s tattoo with his hand. Parts of the triskele peek through the spaces between his fingers.

“So,” he says, curling his fingers so they form dimples in Derek’s skin. “You can imagine what it must be like for a teenager who’s scared out of their mind _and_ horny. Like, that must be overstimulation hell.”

Derek doesn’t even bother to acknowledge him this time. And _come on_ —even with his brain dulled by exhaustion, there’s no way that Derek is this dense. The Big Bad apex predator doesn’t jolt into instant awareness at the sign of a foreign presence in his habitat? Please. Derek has to be doing this on purpose. Stiles wonders if he should start kissing Derek’s neck or shoulders or whatever he can reach, but something about that tactic seems like a shitty seduction technique that belongs in a cheap porno and he can’t bring himself to do it. This method of low-level manipulation has nowhere left to go.

“Wow. You’re really tired, aren’t you?” he asks, light-hearted and casual. “Getting off does that to you, huh? Well, I wouldn’t know. Well—I would know, but I wouldn’t know right _now_ , would I? Because I’m a generous, kind, loving soul and you’re a stingy, selfish, sour—dammit, I can’t think of anything else that starts with ‘s.’ Let’s do titles now. You’re the Patron Saint of Blue Balls. King Finish Yourself Off. Here comes, Lord Wet Dream from the realm of Cockblock.”

“Shut. _Up_ ,” Derek groans into his pillow. “I get it. Fuck.” He flips onto his other side and scowls. Too bad he yawns like a pissy kitten and spoils what Stiles assumes was an effort to intimidate him. Derek has been failing at those a lot lately. Or maybe Stiles is just used to it and doesn’t find Derek threatening anymore.

“Good,” Stiles says.

And then they proceed to stare at each other.

He scoffs. “Okay. Apparently, you _don’t_ get it.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. Oh, _ha_ —of course he doesn’t say anything. That would be like a suggestion and suggestions aren’t made be people who have denied all accountability.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

Derek frowns and shrugs.

“Even though that’s super embarrassing and totally unnecessary.”

“But also clarifying,” Derek says.

Stiles’ blunt fingernails bite into his palm. His eyes flicker to the black table stand behind Derek and then at the pillow, anywhere but Derek’s face.

“I want you to fuck me.”

God _damn_ —that’s mortifying. And he stammered a little. And his face is hot. And he feels stupid for saying it out loud and even for wanting it, especially given their rather dire circumstances.

“Because you’re scared,” Derek says.

A tiny, disbelieving squawk escapes Stiles’ throat. Where the fuck did that conclusion come from? Has Derek been paying attention to him at all?

“Uh, no? I’ve been pretty obvious about how much I’d like to do the horizontal tango from the beginning.”

Stiles watches Derek bite the inside of his cheek to hide a smile. “Yeah. But you said you wanted to have sex because you’re scared.”

“Uh. No, I didn’t.”

“Uh. Yeah, you did,” Derek insistent, calm, _patronizing_ tone really grates on his nerves.

Stiles clenches his teeth hard enough to make his jaw creak. “No. I _didn’t_.”

“Yes. You _did_.”

He sits up because he needs to move, needs to do something to work out some of his frustration. “Alright, _asshole_. When the fuck did I say that?”

Derek sits up too, but at a leisurely pace. Fuck, even _that’s_ patronizing. “When you came in. Something about being horny and scared.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I was talking about people who watch horror movies, dumbass.”

Derek makes a sharp, impatient tut and glances away with that kind of quick head-shake people only use when they’re dealing with someone particularly obtuse or stubborn. Stiles resents the sentiment.

“And is this the part where I’m supposed to pretend you weren’t talking about yourself?” Derek asks. Stiles opens his mouth to object but Derek doesn’t give him the chance. “ _Are_ you scared out of your mind?” he asks.

“Yeah. Obviously,” Stiles sighs. “But the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He wanted to say ‘no’ just to be contrary, but it would’ve been a vain lie and pointless because the truth was never under debate: of course he’s terrified. There’s a part of him that shrinks at the implication that fear is the only reason he’s in Derek’s bed, but that’s bullshit. It shouldn’t matter what got him here. He’s here because he has wanted Derek before all the crap with the Avenging Angel and the Nemeton and Mimi’s cryptic threats and the Trúma. Wanting Derek isn’t a consequence of being afraid and _that’s_ the truth.

Derek shakes his head. “But they _are_ mutually exclusive. You aren’t really here because you’re ready. And if you’re here and you’re not ready, then you’re not here of your own free will.”

Stiles scrambles for the right response because his mind blanks at that train of logic. Consent is everything to Derek and if this isn’t translating as completely consensual, then he can’t fault Derek for putting on the brakes.

He levels Derek with a wry, flat, hopefully self-assured look. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t ready, believe me.”

Derek juts out his chin. A challenge. “If you were ready, then you wouldn’t have needed a fucking preamble and would’ve just _said_ what you wanted. You were still looking for me to make a move because you were too afraid to do it yourself.”

“Maybe that’s just because I’m super awkward and really bad at communication. That should be a trait you understand perfectly well.”

Derek shifts his legs so that he’s fully facing Stiles. “You.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “Bad at communication. _Really_?”

Oh God, this is going nowhere. Exasperated, Stiles looks at the ceiling—oh and look at that, no third party is cheering on his logic to win the race. “Look. I don’t know what I’m doing, okay? I’m fucking _nervous_.” He unfurls his fists and rubs his hands together. “Derek—that’s not the same thing as unconsensual.”

Derek seems to consider that. “You certainly weren’t nervous when you grabbed my dick earlier.”

“Exactly,” Stiles groans. “Wasn’t that proof enough for you? And I swear to God, if you’re holding unto some stupid idea about making my first time special, I will cut you. I really don’t care. I’d be happy if you fucked me in a portapotty.”

There’s a bang from the wall behind him. Oh shit, did Isaac hear that?

Derek doesn’t appear too impressed or enthusiastic by the idea. Stiles can’t fathom why. Nothing says romance like a hole in the ground stinking of shit and piss from dozens of people.

Derek sighs. “I don’t want you to use this as a way to distract yourself. I understand the appeal better than you know.” He breaks eye contact for a moment, mind working on some memory that Stiles isn’t privy to. “If you’re doing this to get away from something, what’s the point in doing it all?”

Stiles doesn’t see the problem. People have sex all the time for a variety of different reasons, that doesn’t cheapen the relationship with that person (if they’re in a relationship), at least not to him. But he and Derek don’t have the same hang ups, so he’s not in a position to criticize or change Derek to suit his preferences.

Stiles heaves a lofty sigh. “So that’s it then. How convenient for you. Make it so I have to prove my confidence by giving you orgasms and then you get to back out when it’s time to give back. You’re a cruel man.” And if Derek can’t tell that he’s saying this just to be a pain in the ass and not seriously complaining, then this thing they have is fucking doomed.

Something flits across Derek’s face, quick as lightning. It’s little more than a twitch and Stiles can’t say for certain what it was, but he’s definitely under the impression that he touched a nerve. When Derek leans in for a kiss—thereby breaking his cardinal rule to never initiate contact—Stiles _knows_ he struck a big nerve.

The kiss is plain. It’s a lot like their first kiss actually, just a moist press of mouths. But then Derek moves—he slides his lips to the corner of Stiles’ jaw, ghosts over the shell of Stiles’ ear, and lingers on the pulsing vein in his neck.

“You’re right. I’ve been unfair,” Derek murmurs.

Oh, fuck—his voice is that low, soft timbre that makes everything inside Stiles grind to a halt. Derek can’t talk like that outside with other people around. It’s fucking public indecency.

Stiles can’t repress the shiver that runs through him and Derek muffles what sounds suspiciously like a snicker into his neck. It must be a laugh because Stiles thinks he can feel Derek’s lips curve into a smile against his skin. Who the fuck can resist a shiver anyway? Like, can anyone? Whatever—his natural response is out there for the world to see. Or for Derek to see, at least. As far as Stiles is concerned, those two things are the same right now.

Derek plants a kiss lower on Stiles’ neck. And then lower again, on his collar bone. And then on his sternum. The warm pressure of Derek’s next kiss—on his chest, just above his left nipple—soaks through his shirt. The kisses continue their descent, and when Derek rucks up the hem of Stiles’ shirt to lay a wet kiss above his navel, Derek’s final destination becomes abundantly clear.

Stiles sucks in a breath and watches Derek with rapt attention, fingers twisting in the thin cotton sheet on Derek’s bed. He bites his lip when Derek kisses his hip bone and pauses to play with the drawstring on his pajama bottoms. It’s probably to test his patience, get him to say—

“Get _on_ with it.”

Stiles wishes he sounded demanding or something—anything— that radiated control and authority. He wishes his voice didn’t tremble and he didn’t sound like a kid. He _feels_ like a kid, all overexcited, eager, anxious, and out of his depth. But Derek doesn’t say anything. He just taps his hands against the sides of Stiles’ thighs and pulls down Stiles’ pajamas and underwear when he lifts his hips.

His eyes swing to the ceiling and his blood rushes to his face, warm, like he’s exposed to the sun’s burning light during a record breaking heat wave. Fuck. Exposed is the word for it. Derek can _see_ him. It feels embarrassing in all the ways he thought it would, but he’s surprised to find a weird, greedy need for Derek’s attention and, weirder still, a sort of triumph. He’s half hard when Derek kisses his bare hip.

There it is: skin to skin contact with a whole new intent.

But Derek just doesn’t _get on with it._ Stiles waits for him to stop pressing kisses at the tops of his hairy thighs, his happy trail, and every place _around_ his dick. When he’s ready to complain again, Derek glances up—mouth red, pupils blown and bright with a similar sense of victory—and takes the head of Stiles’ cock in his mouth.

Stiles’ brain hits restart, reboot, overload. Each sensation strikes at the same time, but somehow he processes them individually. Heavy blood sinking south. _Wet_. Werewolf heat— _wet_ heat—sliding over him. White sparks in his head. His own teeth buried in his lip. The rough cotton filling his fists, absorbing the sweat from his palms and keeping him rooted to the world. The blunt force of ‘yesyesyes.’ Muscles seizing. Nerves charged with electricity, generating this pulsing, circulating path like the loop of color passing through lights on carnival rides.

And the urges he has to combat—the need to go deeper, to grab Derek’s hair and push _in_. The flying thought that he doesn’t give a damn if he chokes Derek. But no, he does care. But he wants to force Derek’s head down anyway. He just wants to fuck and fuck and fuck.

Stiles whimpers. Or sobs. Or groans. He isn’t really sure if there’s even a difference.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes and threads his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.”

Derek’s eyes flash red, playful.

***

Stiles doesn’t get his wish: he dreams. It’s the disjointed, Picasso narrative that only a dream can engineer.

There’s the girl from the movie running—no, driving. She was driving— _is_ driving. Already the dream is off to a messy start. She’s in the desert in Stiles’ jeep. The scene flashes to half-remembered sex scenes between her and lead-guy dude (it’s funny, Stiles never did catch their names—he hates movies like that). But the druids draw most of his attention. They’re chanting and spinning, throwing around dull colored powders while the couple fucks on their hands and knees fifteen feet away, oblivious to the ceremony in motion beside them.

Trees sprout from the sand, eventually thickening into a forest reminiscent of the Preserve. Water bleeds out of the trees and darkens the sand. Somehow this transformation in color allows for a transformation in substance; mesmerized, Stiles watches grains of sand melt into muddy earth.

The druids circle the Nemeton. The girl and lead-guy dude are gone and Stiles replaces their physical presence in the scene. But unlike them, he acknowledges the druids’ ritual and observes them on the sidelines.

Moonlight filters through the branches with unnatural, impossible radiance. If Stiles didn’t already know he was dreaming, he would now. He looks up into the glow and watches the moon cycle through its phases in a matter of minutes. It’s an impossible task—part of the dream sequence, sure—but it strikes him how powerful the druids are in the eyes of werewolves.

The Trúma sweeps into view from out of fucking nowhere.

It’s only because this is a dream that Stiles doesn’t stumble backwards in surprise and fall on his ass. The Trúma’s unblinking, turquoise eyes bear down on him. Something like cloudy mourning rises in his chest, but the feeling fades under the attractive illusion that _this_ is real and the Trúma isn’t dead after all. The line between being an unaware character in a dream and a lucid dreamer blurs. He resolves his uncertainty by checking his hands. He spots six fingers and the unwelcome truth reasserts its claim on reality.

Stiles remembers the way Derek held out his hands to the Trúma and decides to employ the greeting. True to the memory of Derek, the Trúma leans down to peck Stiles’ palms before soaring into the air like a kite caught in a tornado. It’s out of sight before Stiles can even think of a protest.

He turns to the druids again. In the middle of the excited fray, he spots a familiar face.

His mom.

That’s enough. That’s too much. He kicks himself awake.

***

Stiles opens his eyes to the early morning sun. He has an arm around Derek’s bare waist and there’s a little bit of drool under his cheek, on Derek’s pillow. His head must’ve migrated closer during the night. Even with the fan beating against them, the room is smoldering hot.

“I’d say go back to sleep, but that might be a cruel suggestion,” Derek says with a mindful quietness—it’s the volume everyone uses in the early hours of the morning.

Stiles yawns. “How do I know I’m not still dreaming?”

Derek grunts and tries to curl away from Stiles, but his body just slides after Derek’s because of the arm he has around Derek’s waist. “Was that a reference to a shitty romantic comedy? It sounds like one. If you start whispering ‘sweet nothings’ in my ear, I will throw you out that window.”

Well, there’s an opening he can’t resist. “Oh, Derry-berry-pumpkin!” Stiles gushes and brutally pinches Derek’s stomach. “Your ass would make Michelangelo bat for the other team—if he didn’t already, fuck if I know—and your ass would the center of all his work forever after. Aphrodite wishes your ass was her face because it’s so—”

“Get the _fuck_ out of my room.”

Stiles laughs. “Oh, baby. You only say that because you’re too lazy to throw me out yourself.”

“Like I said, if I wanted to remove you, it would be through the window. I was trying to save your life. But if demented poetry is your version of romance, I should put you out of your misery.”

Stiles snorts. Derek is surprisingly talkative in the morning. Who would’ve thought? Too bad Stiles has to be a buzzkill.

“Hey, Derek?”

“ _What_.”

“Is a druid strong enough to kill a Trúma?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this chapter was a beast. Next chapter might be late. Real life is gettin' busy.


	6. ENTRENCH

In the morning paper: Robert Morgenstern, a surgeon at Beacon Hills General Hospital for thirteen years, was found butchered in the same fashion as Daniel Chamberlain.

Stiles and Derek don’t talk about it.

***

It’s a gray, windy Sunday late morning when Stiles, Isaac, and Derek hop inside the Camaro. Since Stiles, Isaac, and Boyd have plans, Derek decided to sneak in a half shift at his work while they were busy. He drives to Chandler’s Hardware, parks, gets out, and disappears inside the funny building with a stiff, tentative wave.

Isaac switches from the rear passenger seat to the driver’s seat. And like all the other times Stiles has spent alone with Isaac, things are reliably awkward and stilted. Of course, the uncomfortable atmosphere is magnified when Stiles factors in what he and Derek were up to last night while Isaac was in the other room, probably hearing most of it. Now Isaac is emitting this ‘I heard you having sex with my dad’ vibe on top of their regular awkward interaction. Super.

Whatever. It’s fine. They’ll be able to achieve small talk by the time they’re fifty.  

But since they aren’t able to achieve small talk _now_ and Stiles has been forbidden to fuck with Derek’s radio for some reason, they’re left in glorious, inevitably disastrous silence.

It takes three minutes.

“So,” Stiles begins, even as his brain screams _abort! abort!_ “How’d you sleep?”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

Isaac slides a cool, disdainful look on Stiles before turning back to the road. Shit—Jackson should take notes if he wants to nail the whole reptilian intimidation routine.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I had to blast my music last night so I could hear it through the _earplugs_ I stuffed in my ears. I’m a little deaf.”

“Oh my God.” Stiles smacks his knuckles against the window because his muscles violently flail when he’s nervous sometimes. “I don’t know why I even asked. I _so_ did not mean to ask. I have no fucking filter.”

“Yeah. I kind of found that out the hard way,” Isaac says.

Stiles unlocks the door and puts his fingers on the door handle. “This is my cue to jump ship. Here’s to hoping that a sinkhole conveniently opens up behind us and I can skid into it.”

Isaac turns right onto Main Street. “I thought skidding into a sinkhole was what you did last night?”

Stiles gapes. Seriously, he must look like he’s trying to unhinge his jaw like a fucking anaconda.

“What’s the matter? Wolf got your dick?”

If Isaac keeps this up, Stiles is going to lose his place as the pack’s overlord of biting wit. He doesn’t know whether to applaud Isaac’s sharpness or shrivel up and die. Life is hard sometimes.

Stiles narrows his eyes, curls his fingers into a gun, and points at Isaac. “Zing,” he says, with the seriousness of a mob boss granting praise to his protégé. “You’re actually a funny guy when you decide to crawl out of your cave.”

Isaac’s mouth twitches into a sort of half-smile. He doesn’t say anything else, but when things fall silent this time, for once, Stiles doesn’t have a hard time keeping his thoughts to himself. Mostly because the fear of stumbling across even greater mortification drives him to think about something that will occupy his full attention. He drifts to more serious matters, like what Derek said this morning.

‘Yes’ had been his answer. Yes, a druid could kill a Trúma.

At some point, Stiles needs to pay Deaton a visit. He should’ve done that ages ago.

***

They pick up Boyd at a plain, blue-faced duplex on Jacob Road, which is just a seven or eight minute ride from Derek’s apartment. There’s a car parked in the left driveway that has definitely seen better days. Isaac pulls in behind it.

When they knock on the door, a tired looking woman with a crown of thick, curly, black hair answers. She’s clearly Boyd’s mom. It’s always weird to see a kid’s parents and know exactly what trait was inherited from whom. Boyd and his mom have the same jaw and mouth. Stiles bets they share the same smile, but he has a feeling he’ll never get a chance to compare. Where Boyd is quiet and reserved, this woman is completely closed off. Even the way she looks at them is closed, like she’s a recluse peeking at the neighborhood kids from behind a curtain inside her triple locked home. Her posture and manner remind Stiles so much of early Derek—when Derek was alone, cautious, and resentful toward everyone.

“You here for Vernon?” she asks.

_Vernon_. God, that’s weird. Thankfully, Stiles doesn’t say that out loud.

“Yeah,” Isaac says.

She nods and steps deeper inside, leaving the door open for them to enter. Stiles watches her retreat to the kitchen and hears running water accompanied by the delicate clink of dishes being stacked. He doesn’t know what to call her. She never bothered to introduce herself.

Altogether, it’s a nice place but weirdly vacant. The small living room has a gleaming pine floor with a blue paisley rug laid on top and sapphire blue walls. There are two windows, one beside the front door, and another on the adjacent wall to their left. Each one is framed by a translucent blue curtain. Two white couches sit underneath each window and a tall, ribbed, ceramic lamp with a light blue shade stands in the furthest corner of the room, between the two couches. It looks like a scene from a home catalogue or something. That’s kind of what’s so unnerving—nothing feels personal.

Isaac jerks his head toward the stairs and starts making his way to the second floor.

Stiles doesn’t immediately follow. The stairs jut out a little, forming a shallow corner that houses a small, white table. He’s drawn to the photograph on top. It’s Boyd’s family and the only personal touch as far as Stiles can see. Boyd’s mom and dad are on opposite ends of the photo, sandwiching two kids, a little girl and an older boy—Boyd.

A sister. Huh. Stiles doesn’t think Boyd ever mentioned having a sister.

He goes upstairs and shuffles into the bedroom with the door left cracked open. Boyd is on his bed, folding his clothes and depositing them carefully into each drawer, and Isaac is sitting cross-legged on the floor. This explains why Boyd didn’t greet them out front when he could probably hear them up the road. He was busy.

“Always had you pegged for a neat freak,” Stiles says, eyeing the made bed, bare floor, and clipped and orderly wires connecting Boyd’s X-box and TV. To Stiles, excessive cleanliness always seemed characteristic of quiet people with quiet, apologetic manners. It’s like another way to be invisible.

Boyd shrugs. “I’m not really. It just makes my mom happy.”

A kid’s clean room makes every mom happy, but that’s usually not enough incentive for a kid to comply. What probably sounds like a sweet, considerate sentiment to optimistic people sounds a whole hell of a lot like guilt to Stiles.

Once Boyd finishes putting his clothes away, the three of them head to the car. They stop just outside the door when Boyd’s mom calls from the kitchen, “Stay safe, Vern.”

“Always looking in every direction,” Boyd says. It’s the sort of automated response honed from long term practice. But it’s idiosyncratic too, like a verbal secret handshake.

They get in the car, Isaac in the driver’s seat, Stiles riding shotgun, and Boyd in back. Stiles makes it a point not to ask about the little girl, but halfway through the ride to the warehouse, his restraint turns out to be unnecessary.

“Her name’s Alicia, if you were wondering,” Boyd says.

“Okay.” What else is there to say? ‘Cool?’ ‘Cute?’ ‘Is she dead?’ Maybe not—Boyd said ‘her name _is.’_ Emphasis on the present.

“And nobody knows what happened to her.”

Nobody says anything until they arrive at the warehouse.

***

Okay. It’s hard to rank which is worse: coughing up blood (an exaggeration but fuck if it didn’t feel like it at the time) during Scott’s ‘leisurely stroll’ and getting chased by an insane, giant fairy or getting pummeled by the ‘oops, I punched you again’ Britney Spears impersonators. Somewhere along the way, some wires must’ve gotten crossed; this went from a ‘let’s beef up Stiles’ quest to a ‘let’s turn him into a pile of tenderized meat’ game. He’s done. He’s out. This wasn’t in his contract.

“Your left side was open again,” Boyd says.

He hovers over where Stiles fell on the warehouse floor. And by ‘fell,’ Stiles doesn’t mean to imply that he collapsed and curled into the fetal position. This is fucking déjà vu. He _just_ did this with Scott.

“My left side is very aware of that, thank you.”  

“Don’t bruise him too much,” Isaac says from the wall by the entrance, all enviably pain free and clearly ready for his turn to hit the piñata. “Derek will beat the shit out of _us_ if we hurt his love muffin.”

Stiles laughs as much as his aching ribs will allow. “Careful, buddy. There are so many ways I can get revenge that will leave you scarred for life. If you thought last night was a show—”

“I don’t like to kick a man while he’s down, but I will,” Boyd mutters.

It’s hard to tell if Boyd’s blushing with his dark skin tone and the warehouse’s shitty light, but Stiles has a feeling he is. Small victories. If he can’t land a solid shot on Boyd, at least he can fluster the fuck out of him.

“All you’ve been doing is kicking me while I’m down. Guys—this clearly isn’t working.”

Boyd sighs and helps Stiles up.

“Try again. Do what we showed you.”

Stiles settles into a defensive position—left leg forward, arms up to shield his liver, fists in front of his face—with minimal eye rolling. Boyd doesn’t give him a chance to voice any more complaints and immediately aims a blow at Stiles’ head, which Stiles easily blocks by closing his forearms together. Another blow comes for his guts, but he blocks that too. He doesn’t flinch in the wrong direction when Boyd feints to the right and sweeps a kick at Stiles’ left knee.

They’ve discovered that Stiles’ problem isn’t defense. Actually, he’s quite good at defending himself. He can defend all fucking day. His brain-body coordination is laughable at best and abysmal at worst, but his reflexes are surprisingly acute. That may seem like an oxymoron, but he thinks his ADHD is a factor—it gives him a hypersensitive startle response. Maybe that’s what complicates simple actions like walking in a straight line; his startle and regular physical responses are too polar, too ‘all or nothing.’ There’s no normal, happy medium.

His issue is the transition between defense and offense. His brain can’t switch gears fast enough, and when he applies his body to an offensive task, his brain is still hung up on defense. There’s a lag in reaction, a clear moment of hesitation. In short, he thinks too fucking much.

Boyd swings an uppercut at Stiles’ ribs, but Stiles quickly sidesteps out of the path. He takes advantage of Boyd’s exposed stomach and lands his first successful punch. Of course, Boyd then grabs his wrist and throws him to the ground, so the victory is short-lived and rewarded with pain.

Stiles coughs at Boyd’s towering body above him. Fuck, this angle is disorienting. “That’s cheating. You let me have that shot.”

Boyd grins down at him. “Yes and no. If you were fighting a human, I think you would’ve made that punch.”

Stiles snorts and then grunts as he levers himself up. “Oh, good. So if I get in a fight with a hunter or something, I can be reassured by the fact that I made one hypothetical punch.”

“We were trying to increase our speed each round,” Isaac adds. “So if you did fight a human, they’d feel slower than what you’re used to.”

Stiles considers that. He honestly couldn’t tell—he was dazed each time he got knocked on his ass. He wasn’t solving for a common, inconsistent factor because he was too preoccupied with the punches and kicks coming at him and how to stay on his feet.

It’s pretty decent logic if he ignores the psychological repercussions of their method. Based on his performance today, he would expect to lose a fight against a leaf. If he were faced with an actual fight, his confidence would be shot. And when anyone thinks they’re going to lose a fight before it even starts, they usually do.

He doesn’t really know what to feel now. He can’t gauge how much progress he actually made. It doesn’t bother him too much. Rome wasn’t built in a day and all that. At the very least, he learned how to guard some vital organs.

This will be the end of their session. Stiles knows he can’t push himself much longer and no one trusts the light in this place to repel the Avenging Angel for more than a few hours. It’s a little past two and the light is switching to the other side of the building where there are no windows. The fluorescent lighting isn’t reliable, especially not with the wind whipping at the power lines.

It takes a minute for Stiles to get to his feet, but once he’s up and hobbling, he and Boyd clear the sparring area and quickly chug the water bottles Isaac thought to grab before leaving the apartment.

Predictable ass kicking aside, Stiles is impressed with Boyd’s teaching abilities and the leadership potential he can see hiding under the surface. Boyd was different today, more comfortable in his skin and confident with his instructions. Turns out, being away from superiors was good for him after all. Isaac too—he was also more carefree, but he still followed Boyd’s direction and quietly looked for approval.

“If you took charge like that around Derek, I think he’d finally get off your back for being too reliant on others,” Stiles says. Some water dribbles down his chin and splatters down his shirt. Dammit. He looks down to wipe it away and misses the look on Boyd’s face.

Honestly, he feels a bit bad for pointing out Boyd’s strength and not Isaac’s too. But why the hell should he feel bad? After all, he isn’t exactly in Isaac’s top ten people worth impressing. It’s not really Stiles’ role to pat everyone on the head and say, ‘good puppy.’ Sure, he’s this ‘den keeper’ thing, according to an incredibly dubious source, but he’s only keeping everyone together by proxy or whatever. Plus, commenting on Isaac’s progress with that annoying sort of belated, frantic reassurance would probably be _more_ harmful than saying nothing at all.

“It’s not something I can do all the time,” Boyd says. “I just trust Erica’s lead more than my own.” And with that, he trains his eyes on the wall with this hard, resolute stare.

“That’s kind of infuriating,” Isaac says mildly. “I don’t have a clue how to stop being so fucking ‘cautious’ when it’s kept me—when it’s as deeply ingrained as any instinct. And here you’ve been holding out on me. You’re out of this club. You’re not dysfunctional enough.”

“I nearly got us killed during our escape from the alpha pack,” Boyd says out of the fucking blue.

Of course, the ‘us’ doesn’t need specification, but the way Boyd says it so honestly makes the admission sound accidental, like it was an internal thought that wormed its way out of his mouth. As far as Stiles knows, Boyd and Erica haven’t told anyone about how they escaped the alpha pack or what the alpha pack did to them or even what they were wanted for (if they even knew).

“I said we should try to escape underground, through the tunnel system,” Boyd continues. “Try to be stealthy. It’s so moldy down there I hoped it would cover our scent.” He scoffs. It’s a weird sound coming from him. He has never expressed any sort of disdain in front of Stiles.

Boyd shakes his head and looks at his feet. “So _stupid_. We’re alive because of fucking _luck_. They found us in a heartbeat. We were cornered. One of the alphas got me across the stomach good. Erica forced me back to the wall and she—she charged them. She didn’t count on making it. One of the alphas—a huge one—hit her hard and she went flying into the wall above me and crashed through it. It gave us an exit and we ran.

“We were lucky again. There was a water pipe or something that burst in there. I don’t really know. But the mold was worse in there than anywhere else. We could barely smell each other and we were side by side. I swear I felt the spores coating my lungs. Anyway—later, she told me she heard dripping behind the wall and smelled some of the air coming through a crack. She thought the wall might be weak if it had a crack. She tried to get me to smell it too and to break through it while she bought me time, but I didn’t know—I didn’t catch on. I was too scared. _She’s_ the reason we’re alive. _She_ has the reliable instincts, not me.”

“You say it was all luck and Erica,” Stiles says. “But you _were_ right. The mold was enough to cover you. Who’s to say you would’ve lived if you and Erica chose open ground? Sounds like your survival was a combined effort.”

“ _That_ was the luck,” Boyd insists. “It was luck that we wound up in the spot we did. If it had been anywhere else, we would’ve been slaughtered. It was her quick thinking that really saved us. If she was terrified like me, we would’ve died, Stiles. Don’t you _get_ that? If she was _like_ _me_ , we would be _fucking dead_.”

“Maybe it was just luck that Erica happened to be paying attention,” Isaac adds.

Boyd exhales a sigh through his nose. “I’m not budging on this. I don’t care what you say. Even if you’re right, there were other things I did wrong. Similar mistakes. The fault is with me.”

“What about when you listened to me about the Maroosh?” Stiles says. “Jackson wouldn’t have listened. Or Peter. And Derek _didn’t_. Hell, I bet even you,” he looks to Isaac, “would’ve ignored me.”

Isaac shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

“Still followed your lead,” Boyd grumbles.

“Uh, no. You trusted me when you didn’t have any reason to. That was your call. Which was why Derek chewed you out. My bad, by the way.”

Boyd’s mouth curves into a small, reluctant smile. “Liar. You’re not really sorry.”

No argument there. “Yeah—well, the result justified the means and all that. But my point still stands. _You_ made the call. That’s taking more initiative than you give yourself credit for.”

Boyd shakes his head. “I was only doing what I thought Erica might’ve done.”

Stiles doesn’t mean to sound like he’s belittling Erica’s achievement—it’s fucking remarkable that she caught so many fine details in such a high-stress situation—but he thinks Boyd is elevating the weight of her decisions to justify doubting himself.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Oh my God. How the fuck do you think people learn anything? They get it wrong until they get it right. Or they copy other people getting it right. And maybe that goes wrong and they get it right the next time. What, you think you’re the only fuck up here? You think everyone else in the world is born perfect and you missed that bus? You’re in for a rude fucking awakening if you think anyone is going to live up to those standards.”

“Maybe,” Boyd says.

Whatever. Stiles isn’t going to try to push any further. Boyd will come to his senses on his own.

All in all, he’s somewhat stunned that Boyd is sharing this in the first place. Boyd isn’t a talker and they’re not exactly friends. Or maybe they are now. Maybe he’s doing exactly what Peter said he was doing: entrenching himself deeper into this ‘den keeper’ role without even meaning to.

“Anyway,” Stiles says, spinning his empty water bottle in the air and catching it. “I’ve got an errand to run. Isaac, you think you could drop me off at Deaton’s?”

Isaac frowns and his eyebrows pinch together. “Deaton’s? What are you going there for?”

Thinking, Stiles balances the empty bottle on the tips of his fingers before sending it spiraling into the air again. He could lie. He could say he just wants some of the honey dirt shit to heal his bruises. Come to think of it, that might not be such a bad idea; if his dad sees the state he’s in, there’s no way he’ll be able to dispel the suspicion that he’s a gangbanger or something when he looks like he just got in a huge fight. It’s also a good excuse to show up at Deaton’s unannounced. Not like anyone ever really calls first, but Stiles will be able to give Deaton the impression that’s he’s there for casual reasons, not just to interrogate him.

So he could lie to them, but he doesn’t.

“Apparently, a druid is strong enough to kill a Trúma. I thought I might find out what Deaton has to say about that.”

Boyd blinks at him. “Why do I get the feeling that you were going to talk to him _alone_ even with the chance that he might be a murderer?”

Stiles laughs. “Because I _never_ learn.”

***

After Stiles receives his tiny jam jar of honey-dirt potion (as it will forever be named), he asks Deaton if there’s any possibility that he just _happened_ to ritualistically slaughter the Trúma on an ancient, magical tree stump and release an undead Big Bird to exact vengeance upon all those directly and indirectly guilty of murder, for whatever wicked villainy he has planned?

Stiles supposes he should find it reassuring that Deaton laughs in his face.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Deaton says once his amusement subsides. “Druids can’t kill Tempest Witches.”

Stiles, Isaac, and Boyd exchange looks.

“That’s not what Derek said,” Stiles argues.

Deaton takes a seat beside the metal table where animals lay to have their shots administered. He patiently clasps his hands together and rests them above his knee.

“If I killed the Trúma, I wouldn’t be a druid anymore,” Deaton says.

And fuck all if Stiles understands what that’s supposed to mean. He narrows his eyes. “I’ve known fortune cookies less cryptic than you. _Empty_ fortune cookies. You don’t get much more cryptic than an empty fortune cookie.”

Deaton tilts his head and smiles. Seriously. Maybe Deaton and Mimi are distant cousins or something. They’ve got the ‘let’s piss off Stiles by being incredibly unhelpful’ gene in common.

“Can we drop the smoke and mirrors act and skip the twenty questions game? There’s a moldy grim reaper with a bone to pick.” Stiles pauses. “Come to think of it, I mean that literally. My subconscious enjoys making puns about how I’m going to die.”

“There’s a vial of mistletoe in the drawer below the computer out front,” Deaton says.

“Oh. Well that explains everything,” Isaac says.

Stiles appreciates Isaac’s sarcasm on a spiritual level.

Deaton levels them with a flat look. “I want one of you to go get it,” he sighs, like that wasn’t clear enough before.

No one moves. This could be a ploy to divide their strength, if Deaton is a liar after all. And since he’s not what you’d call forthcoming, nobody is willing to discount the possibility.

Deaton must sense how edgy this makes everyone because he rolls his eyes, leans back in his chair, and finally gets to the point. “Druids swear very specific, very _binding_ oaths to uphold the laws of nature and balance. Those oaths can be broken by another ritual, but there’s a cost. The result can go one of two ways: one, you surrender your powers and have no hope of getting them back, or two, you become a sort of ‘anti-druid.’”

“A darach,” Peter’s unexpectant voice calls from the lobby. “Now, let me through the mountain ash barrier or I’ll huff and puff and you know the rest.”

The corners of Deaton’s mouth press down, like he’s fending off a smile rather than frowning. Isaac shuffles to the doorway but stops when Deaton shakes his head.

After a pause, Peter says, “Oh, I see. Fine then. I can still participate in this conversation from over here.”

“What are you even doing here?” Stiles asks.

“Following the same trail you stumbled on, I suspect. A little bird told me about a question you had this morning. And by ‘little bird’ I mean our illustrious alpha.”

“A darach,” Deaton repeats and the humor in his face wipes clean, “ _Would_ have the ability and knowledge to sacrifice a Trúma.”

“And there’s something else,” Peter says. “This darach isn’t just a murderer. It’s a parasite. It’s feeding off the Nemeton.”

Deaton’s mouth turns into a grim line. “That’s an unwelcome complication.”

‘An unwelcome complication’ sounds like they hit a detour sign on a lengthy road trip instead of discovering that there’s a super-powered monster waiting to…what? What was this ‘darach’ even _doing_? Aside from the Avenging Angel and the strange weather connected to it—which was a consequence of the darach’s actions, _not_ an intention—nothing in Beacon Hills has changed. And Stiles is still puzzled over Peter. Why reveal this information now? Was it something else Derek kept secret as per Stiles’ ‘barred from pack business’ status?

Stiles looks at Boyd and Isaac, “Did you guys know about any of this?”

They shake their heads, looking clueless and bewildered.

“I have a plan to catch the darach, if anyone’s interested.” There’s a dangerous, tantalizing note in Peter’s voice. Any solution to a horrible situation is attractive, but Peter’s solutions are usually more trouble than they’re worth.

“Oh?” Deaton says. He seems just as unsettled and wary.

“The darach has some spell on the Nemeton and that’s how it’s getting power. Find a way to disengage the spell. That should lure the darach back to the Nemeton to try and recast it. Simple.”

Yeah. Simple. Stiles waits for the catch, but there doesn’t seem to be one. At least, it’s not verbalized or obvious to him (yet).

He turns away from Deaton and towards the door frame, like he means to confront Peter even with the walls separating them. “As long as another sacrifice isn’t required to get the job done.”

“Oh, no.” Oddly enough, Peter sounds even more calculating and sly when his body isn’t in view. “The sacrifice was meant to activate the Nemeton. The spell on it is something else.”

Well, it’s a good thing that Stiles’ date with Lydia and Erica is next on his to-do list. Honestly, he doesn’t trust Deaton to have the magical resources to ‘disarm’ the Nemeton. Deaton isn’t the ‘come to your rescue’ type, not if he can help it. He fortifies their defense more than anything else.

“I guess we should make a call to Lydia,” Isaac says.

Maybe Stiles should push his meet-up a few days early. Maybe they could get this settled tonight. Sure, he, Derek, and Jackson would have to wrap themselves in Christmas lights in order to attend the un-magicking, but they’ll manage.

With nothing more to say, Stiles, Isaac, and Boyd bid Deaton a good afternoon and sheepishly duck out of the veterinarian hospital. Peter is nowhere to be seen.

***

Stiles lounges across the couch at the apartment while Isaac accompanies him by sitting at the base of the couch closest to Derek’s door. Derek isn’t with them. He’s still at Chandler’s and won’t be back until four.

Lydia is busy. _Busy_. Like there are more important things going on than putting a stop to the Avenging Angel and saving lives.

_Can’t get back to beacon hills until monday_ , says the text on Stiles’ phone.

_i thought lydia martin could make anything happen. so who r u and what have u done with the goddess of the z-snap?_

Lydia’s next text reads: _I’m at my dad’s for the weekend. If I leave and go back to my mom’s house during my dad’s custody time, he’ll call his lawyers. I’d rather save her the trouble._

Stiles stares at the text for a long time. He never heard things about Lydia from Lydia herself, so this is really his first personal glimpse of her life, something he always hoped to see from an inclusive perspective. And it’s an odd feeling because this wasn’t how he imagined things to turn out, but he finds himself happier with this version of events.

Her parents’ divorce was one of the many facts that Stiles had ‘gathered’ on Lydia. In the past, he had, in an abstract way, sympathized with the impact this must’ve had on her based on what he knew of Scott’s experiences. Now he realizes that the circumstances aren’t remotely the same; Scott’s dad ditched him ages ago, so he didn’t live in the middle of parental politics and the tug of war involved. And _that_ is something Stiles can’t imagine, but he does understand the need to give his parent—his dad—as little stress as possible more than anyone (even if he continually fails to achieve those results).

He’s kind of ashamed that for the first time ever, Lydia Martin seems _ordinary_. She falls back to the ground when she jumps like everyone else. She doesn’t have the power to make the world kneel before her like Stiles always admired. That stupid mirage of perfection is gone. Weirdly enough, Lydia feels closer to him than ever.

He types _: okay. monday?_

_I’ll have to check the Nemeton over first and then write up what I see. That could take a while. No need for you to get involved. I’ll have Jackson, Erica, and possibly Boyd at my back. So Tuesday._

Stiles smiles at his phone. _you can make erica and Jackson get along? you are magic_.

_You bet your ass I am._

So things have moved up one day earlier. It’s not much, but it’s better than sitting on his ass for _two_ whole days of nothing. Safety is a set of constructed materials—ideas, people, objects, places—and when those things are narrowed down, constantly in view, and kept at the forefront of your mind, safety starts to feel like a prison. Stiles feels the Avenging Angel shackled to him like a warden, herding him, always restricting where to go, what to touch, what to keep at his bedside. It’s fucking unbearable. It’s fucking suffocating. He just wants to get _outside_ of this barrier squeezing around him.

“Stiles,” Isaac says.

Stiles tries to steady his rapid breaths and blink away the spots at the corners of his vision. He hums an inquiring noise instead of speaking.

“Nothing. Derek will be back soon.”

***

Stiles is scanning through the not so wondrous things on the internet—namely youtube clips of idiots trying to skateboard off roofs and failing miserably—when Derek gets home. Stiles tries not to perk up like a happy puppy. Once upon a time, the sight of Derek Hale would have curdled his good mood.

“Hey,” Derek says as he kicks his shoes off beside the couch. He takes a seat between Stiles and Isaac (who still seems allergic to sitting on anything with cushions for whatever reason).

“Hey,” Stiles returns. He closes his laptop and sets it on the coffee table. “So we went to Deaton’s.”

“I know,” Derek says easily. “He called.”

Stiles frowns. “So you know what Peter said.”

“Yeah.”

“So you know Lydia is going to check on the Nemeton?”

“And I know you’re not going with them.”

And _that_ would be the tone that Derek uses to launch an argument. So he doesn’t actually know that Stiles isn’t going—this is just more of his ‘roll Stiles in bubblewrap’ bullshit. It’s kind of a double standard; after all, Lydia is going and she’s human. And Derek’s reservations can’t hide behind the fact that Stiles is a target because Jackson is a target too. Whatever. It’s not worth fighting about. Stiles knows the counter-arguments: ‘well, Lydia has magic’ and ‘well, Jackson is a werewolf and can heal faster.’ Which is true enough and reasonably convincing, he supposes. It still pisses him off in a removed, distant sort of way.

“I’m not going,” Stiles agrees. “Lydia told me she’s good with her werewolf entourage.”

Derek pauses at that. He tilts his head and waits like he’s expecting a defiant outburst. When Stiles doesn’t say anything else, Derek nods and the corner of his mouth twitches into a fleeting smile.

“Good,” he says.

Stiles slumps against the armrest not really for any purpose, just to move for the sake of moving. Unfortunately, the shift disturbs some of his deep bruises. He digs his hand into the crevice between the armrest and the couch cushion, where he let the jam jar of honey-dirt potion fall. He grabs the jar, unscrews the top, and takes a quick, grimacing sip.

“Fuck. I forgot how much I hated this crap.” He shudders. “Anyway—”

“How bad did they get you?” Derek sighs.

Stiles catches Isaac’s expression. He doesn’t look scared exactly, but his eyes are a little round and his mouth is parted, like a kid caught in the act of doing something he was just told not to do—that innocent, childish fear. Stiles doesn’t share his apprehension. It’s not like Derek didn’t know the hazards of a human sparring with two werewolves. If Derek didn’t expect injuries, he’s a fucking idiot. Then again, Stiles is the subject of Derek’s unwilling favoritism (‘unwilling’ only because Stiles knows Derek hates to privilege one pack member above others in such an unfair way), so if there’s hell to pay because he got hurt, it’s not likely that Derek is going to give _him_ an earful.

“Lift,” Derek says and motions to Stiles’ shirt.

Stiles didn’t think to check the damage, so he doesn’t really know what to expect—well, other than a significant amount of bruising. He peels the hem of his t-shirt up enough to reveal most of his right side, nearly from his armpit to his hip bone.

It’s not pretty. He has a nice smattering of dirty green and yellow bruises stretching everywhere he can see. The only places not green, yellow, and reddish purple—the unalarming kind—are the round swathes of deep, bluish purple—definitely the alarming kind—and the cringe worthy patches of black, where either Boyd or Isaac forgot to check their strength when they reflexively struck back.

Derek’s eyebrows climb high on his forehead. He turns to Isaac. “You should’ve been more careful with him.”

“We were—we tried,” Isaac mumbles. His knees are already drawn up to his chest, but now he coils his arms tightly around his shins. A protective position. He looks like he’s expecting a brutal punishment.

It’s so uncomfortable to watch that Stiles is too quick to put him at ease.

He snorts. “‘Be careful,’ says the man who slammed my head into a steering wheel.”

Stiles realizes it’s a poor choice of a joke when Isaac flinches and Derek’s eyes drop to the floor, embarrassed and guilty. Sometimes Stiles is good at reading an atmosphere and knowing when to break the ice. Other times, not so much.

He groans and rolls his eyes. “Oh, stop it. I was just _kidding_. I’m fine. I’ve had worse. You’ve seen me with worse.”

Derek gets up and disappears into the kitchenette. For a second, Stiles thinks he seriously upset him and just triggered a mini-meltdown, but then Derek returns with a bulging dishcloth.

“Is that ice? Did you bring me ice?” Stiles asks.

Derek places the dishcloth on his biggest, darkest bruise.

He yelps. “ _Fuck_! That’s ice. That’s fucking _ice_. Take it _off_. Did you salt this? Are you trying to give me freezer burn? This is overcorrecting, dude. This is like giving me morphine for a paper cut. All the past hurts have healed. Live and let die!” He tries to recoil from the frigid, searing _thing_ on his side, but Derek isn’t having any of that. His movements follow Stiles’ so perfectly that escape is impossible. “This is very sweet, but I hate you.”

“It’ll help,” Derek insists. His mouth is flat like it usually is but his eyes are narrowed and creased like he’s smiling. He’s eye-smiling. Bastard. Sadist.

“And how would you know?” Stiles grunts. Big Bad Werewolf probably never needed a cold compress in his life.

“You’re being a wimp,” Isaac says. If he’s talking, then that must mean his anxiety has passed. Mission accomplished there.

Stiles sees how it is. Only his suffering puts a little light in Derek and Isaac’s lives. Fine. He’s just going to make it awkward for everyone. He squirms and manipulates Derek’s mimicking movements, so that his legs wind up pinned beneath Derek’s torso. When Derek’s chin is nearly resting on Stiles’ hip, Stiles sharply twists his body, aligning Derek’s face close to his crotch.

He pats Derek’s face and earns a dull scowl. “Derek. I know I’m hot stuff, but have some self-control around the children.”

Like the asshole he is, Derek squeezes the dishcloth so some of the melted, icy water trickles down Stiles’ stomach and into his jeans.

Stiles swears, outraged and mutinous—but then the sensation of a cooling, damp trail strikes a memory. His mind flashes to last night, to Derek licking down his stomach and cock. A shock of heat courses through him.

Okay. So this is backfiring spectacularly.

Derek’s smile turns a bit more sincere. “You should follow your own advice. Have some _self-control_.”

Derek picks an ice cube from the dishcloth, creates a gap between Stiles’ abdomen and the band of his boxers with his other hand, and pushes the ice cube inside faster than Stiles can think of a protest. The ice settles against his dick. That’s one _fucking awful_ way to stop an awkward boner.

Howling, Stiles flails and writhes like he’s having a seizure. “Dick! Asshole! Fucker!”

Derek and Isaac laugh.

Stiles shoves his hand down his pants and retrieves the ice cube. He flings it at Derek’s face.

“Suck on that, dickhead!”

He pauses and lets his words sink in. Derek and Isaac seem to do the same because they’re equally quiet and still.

Isaac pitches forward, laughing his ass off.

***

Things quiet down.

After ten minutes, Derek allows Stiles a much deserved reprieve from the stupid, completely unnecessary icepack. And then the three of them lapse into the routine that they began the second night Stiles stayed over at Derek’s apartment; they watch TV while Stiles does commentary until he’s hushed or told to ‘shut the fuck up.’

Dinner is a collaborative project. Despite practically wrestling with him on the couch, Derek isn’t too keen to let Stiles cook for everyone alone, like it’s as taxing as lifting a mountain or something. Hopefully, Derek’s overprotective streak runs its course.

Stiles isn’t too keen on the idea of help. He doesn’t want to test whether Deaton’s honey potion can cure food poisoning, which seems like a possibility since he doesn’t trust Derek’s ability to gauge when meat has been properly cooked. It turns out that Isaac has some skills in the kitchen; he used to cook for his dad. And that tidbit of information sparks a competition to cut down Isaac’s workload as much as possible.

The end result is one funky tasting meatloaf. It’s not a bad weird, just an ‘I think I could like it on the sixth bite’ weird.

With work in the morning, Isaac heads to bed as soon as dinner is finished and cleaned up. Stiles and Derek do the same. Even with the changes Stiles has seen in Derek, the man still isn’t much of a talker and Stiles is too distracted by the chance to have the burden of the Avenging Angel lifted to strike up a conversation. So with nothing to say, they have no reason to stay up.

When Derek heads into his bedroom, he leaves his door open. The invitation is an unexpected relief. Stiles follows him in after brushing his teeth in the bathroom.

They don’t do anything, not really. Stiles crawls in beside Derek and curls against his bare back. He allows himself to run a hand down Derek’s shoulder and arm, touch his tattoo, squeeze his thigh. It’s not that Stiles doesn’t want to start something— if it’s not at the forefront of his attention, that desire always seems to lurk in the background—it’s just that his brain is, again, too preoccupied. He doesn’t want Isaac to hear them, for one. He wouldn’t want that on his mind while he’s trying to focus on Derek. But most of all, he wants _silence_ not more energy, adrenaline, or thoughts that involve psychological probing and emotional marco polo—is he getting closer to or further from the scars Kate Argent left behind?

It’s a weird feeling, to want something and not want it at the same time.

Tomorrow, he’ll be bored. Tomorrow, he’ll be wound up and have energy to spend. But not now. Now, he just wants to be near Derek. And that’s all.


	7. ENERGY

Stiles wakes up before Derek and takes the unmonitored opportunity to evaluate his bruising. Turns out Deaton’s honey-dirt potion heals broken blood vessels very effectively. All of the light bruising is gone and the heavier bruises have brightened to a muddy red.

And judging by the time on the clock, it’s safe to say that Isaac is at work and Stiles and Derek are all alone.

Now that he’s rested, his nerves are loud and itching to leap into action. There’s a part of him that wishes he was with Lydia right now, but not for the altruistic purpose of lending a hand with the Nemeton or even to save lives (his own included). There’s a part of him that just wants to oversee progress and be able to track a forward momentum. But another part of him is looking forward to decoding Derek. They have _hours_ to screw around.

Stiles brushes his hand down Derek’s back and then kisses the juncture between his neck and shoulder. This is a bit like the cheesy porno seduction technique he was hoping to avoid. Whatever. If it gets him where he wants to go, who cares? No one’s here to tell him he looks stupid. No one’s here to tell him he’s inadequate.

Derek stirs a little and lightly shrugs his shoulder into Stiles’ cheek, but otherwise doesn’t say or do anything else. Stiles continues mouthing up Derek’s neck, applying pressure and suction and tongue. Derek sighs and hums then, and Stiles knows he’s awake. There’s a patient alertness in the shift of Derek’s shoulders.

Stiles has learned a few lessons. Subtlety doesn’t work. Always approach Derek directly and always be forward with everything. Have confidence and trust. Derek won’t humiliate him for trying.

“Hey,” he murmurs in Derek’s ear before kissing behind it.

Derek reaches back and squeezes Stiles’ knee.

Be direct—it’s becoming his mantra. He does the most direct thing he can think of—he reaches over Derek’s hip and further down into Derek’s sweatpants to close his hand around Derek’s dick. He takes it as a very good sign that Derek is mostly hard.

“Alright—fuck. I’m awake,” Derek mumbles.

Stiles presses a smile into the curve of Derek’s neck. “Well, I can definitely feel that.”

This is too close to the shit they got up to yesterday and Stiles doesn’t want to repeat the things they’ve already done. Not when there’s so much unexplored ground. He wants Derek to use what’s in that damn black drawer. But how does he prove that this is about them, not fear or distraction? Sex is a way to occupy time, sure, but he needs to make it clear that he wants this just _because_ they’re…because this is what they are. They’re close now and he sees this as one way to get closer.

“You said that I call the shots,” Stiles says. “You said we do or don’t do things on my terms. So here.” To make a point, he strokes Derek’s dick and elicits a quiet, strangled noise. “Was there a preamble this time? What I want is there on the table. If you want to talk me out of it, then you’re talking me out of it because you don’t want to do it. And that’s fine. You know you don’t have to go along with everything I want, right?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Derek says with an airy little catch in his breathing.

Stiles nods—not that Derek can see him. “Okay. Good. Cool. So don’t go on trying to convince me that your issues are my issues. That makes things so much more confusing than they need to be. You can _tell_ me I call all the shots, but I don’t in reality.”

“Stiles—”

“No, _listen_.” Since this conversation is too sincere to have with a dick in his hand, Stiles releases Derek and places his palm over Derek’s clothed thigh. “I thought I could—I don’t know— _learn_ you and feel things out with my ‘powers’ of observation or whatever, but I can’t. That’s not working. That’s making me more nervous. There are times when I have questions and I need to hear answers. Ignoring those questions or filling in the blanks myself makes me feel weird—wrong. It’s like I’m avoiding you when you’re right fucking in front of me. I’m here willingly, are you?”

Derek quickly turns to face him. His eyebrows pinch together, serious and offended. “Of course.”

Stiles bunches the material of Derek’s sweatpants in his fist. “Are you okay—do you want to—?”

Derek’s body goes still and taut for a brief moment. But then the tension bleeds out of him and he sags against the mattress with a defeated sigh. “Yeah. I do. I shouldn’t. But I do. I just don’t want to mess things up at the start.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You haven’t. You won’t.”

“It feels like I already have,” Derek says.

“Oh, stop.” Stiles butts his forehead against Derek’s clavicle. “I can’t stand it when you’re optimistic.”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles gives up on talking. It doesn’t usually turn out well for them. He puts a hand to the back of Derek’s neck, aligns their bodies so they’re in complete contact from chest to knee, and kisses him. He starts with finesse at first and uses every dirty trick he knows—tickling the roof of Derek’s mouth and tracing Derek’s teeth with his tongue, suckling Derek’s bottom lip, and nipping his upper lip.

Things escalate. They move so quickly on aggressive, competitive instinct that Stiles can’t keep track of the things he does to Derek or the things Derek does to him. He doesn’t have time to think and, for once, he doesn’t _need_ to.

And that’s fucking freedom.

It’s wet and hot and their mouths slide against each other with these slick, filthy noises. Moans and gasps get swallowed up. Teeth graze lips. Hands tangle in hair and claw at whatever’s in reach. Stiles tries to get a grip on Derek’s shoulder and back, but the sweat gathering on Derek’s skin makes his hands slip. He tries again, grabs harder, and ends up raking his fingernails down Derek’s spine.

His low, animal growl punctures the air before breaking into an overwhelmed gasp.

Struck a nerve on that one.

Stiles doesn’t understand how his insides can go from warm to boiling so fast. His heart pounds in his chest and he’s so fucking hard.

“Fuck,” he hisses against Derek’s mouth. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

He pries Derek’s legs apart with his left knee and wraps his right leg over Derek’s hip in an effort to get one of Derek’s thighs between his. The position is somewhat awkward and difficult to coordinate, but that doesn’t matter for long. In a flash, Derek has Stiles on his back and abandons his mouth in favor of teasing the skin on his neck. _Again_ with the neck. Derek’s going to leave so many fucking marks. On second thought, Stiles might be home free. The honey-dirt potion should heal them before his dad can see and ask about them.

Derek bites, nips, sucks, and licks what feels like every inch of Stiles’ neck. When he scrapes his front teeth gently down Stiles’ Adam’s apple, Stiles makes a noise he’ll definitely be embarrassed about later.

“Alright?” Derek asks.

Stiles swallows in an attempt to loosen the tightness in his throat. “Uh huh,” he says. Shit—he sounds so out of it and breathy. _Nothing_ like himself.

Derek adjusts his weight to give Stiles enough room to sit up, and since Stiles is still fully clothed, he suspects Derek wants him to take advantage of the increased space and get undressed. He sits up and peels off his shirt. They move apart a little more, both working to discard their pants.

“Alright,” Derek says. “Tell me what you want.”

***

Stiles is on his back, knees bent, feet flat on the mattress, legs spread, cock hard on his stomach with three of Derek’s fingers in his ass. He grips the sheet and bites his lip while Derek expands the spread of his fingers.

Derek glances away from his work and up at Stiles’ face. “You good?”

Stiles tries to laugh but it’s an oddly wet, cracking sound. “Yes. For the _millionth_ time.” They’ve been doing this for fucking ages. Even if it was too much, he’d still push himself to keep going if it meant hearing Derek use that gentle murmur. Stiles just can’t get enough of it. He doesn’t think Derek uses that tone with the others, at least not as often as he uses it with him, and that makes it feel important. Something only he can provoke.

“Alright,” Derek says. His eyes trail over Stiles’ body and the corners of his mouth twitch into a soft, slightly ominous smile.

Derek squeezes Stiles’ dick with his free hand and crooks his fingers inside Stiles to stroke over his prostate. Stiles convulses, hips surging off the mattress. He tries to follow two sensations but doesn’t know whether to press up into Derek’s grip or bear down on Derek’s fingers. Somehow that confusion amplifies the lightning in his nerves, makes his synapses and neurons (or whatever the fuck is responsible for the sparks in his brain and nervous system) linger for just a bit longer and burn just a bit brighter. He lowers down, sucking in a breath and choking back desperate, impatient groans.

The inconsistent pressure of moving fingers isn’t entirely new (he has experimented with fingering before) but the _unpredictability_ is new. And because his nerves can’t anticipate what’s coming next, they can’t dull the experience.

Lube dribbles out of Stiles’ ass and down his skin. There’s probably a small swimming pool down there. Derek was more than generous—he probably used the whole damn bottle. Okay, more like a fifth, but still an unnecessary amount.

Derek removes his fingers, wipes them on the edge of the bed, and reaches for a condom from the box on top of the black table stand. Stiles watches Derek tear open the foil and slide the condom on. It’s not done to be teasing or sexy—hell, Derek is swift and practical and isn’t even looking at him when he does it—but watching it is absurdly hot for some reason. Stiles can’t really pinpoint why. All he can do is lick his lips and try not to tense up too much.

It’s always a strange, surreal feeling when something you’ve imagined for so long finally happens. It reminds him of missing a step and getting that sudden, free-falling shock in his chest. Maybe it’s not quite that dramatic, but it’s a jarring feeling and narrows his world down to a single point.

Derek crawls on top of him and they kiss and kiss and kiss as Derek guides himself inside. It’s a fucking bizarre sensation. Filling and intrusive and foreign. And it burns a little more than he expected it would. Turns out Stiles’ fantasies were right about the heat. He can feel Derek scorching inside of him even above his own heightened body temperature. And around the twinge of his adjusting muscles, that heat keeps him walking this tightrope between pleasure and distraction. He can’t tell if the pulsing he feels ticking inside him is coming from his muscles or from Derek.

Stiles shifts his weight, wriggling his hips just a little. Derek’s face is buried in the curve of Stiles’ neck, so he can’t see Derek’s face, but he feels Derek’s moan vibrate against his skin and a scrape of teeth close to his shoulder.

“Good?” Derek asks.

Stiles rolls his eyes behind his eyelids. Jesus—Derek doesn’t have to _keep asking_. When he opens his eyes, Derek’s face is hovering above his, searching him.

“A bit weird,” Stiles admits.

Derek laughs and kisses him. “Good weird or bad weird?”

There’s a strange electric fog spreading through his brain. Everything’s getting hazy and hot. “I don’t know? Just weird, I guess. I’m getting used to it.”

Derek accepts that and bends his neck forward for another kiss. Stiles gets too distracted by the tongue in his mouth to pay close attention to the seconds (or minutes) that melt away, but it’s not long before the discomfort fades and he starts to appreciate the pressure inside him. And then he’s clawing his fingernails over Derek’s shoulder blades, signaling him to move. Derek obeys—starts fucking Stiles with slow, shallow thrusts. The pressure morphs into something else, a compound force of weight and friction that teases his raw nerve endings.

Derek gradually increases his pace and presses his palms against the underside of Stiles’ legs, dragging him closer and shifting the angle. It’s not really that much of a physical change—just a couple of degrees—but it makes all the fucking difference. Stiles throws his head back and shouts. A knot of pleasure tightens in his stomach. _Fuck_.

Derek takes that for the encouragement that it is and practically bends Stiles in half, keeping up a brutal pace.

Stiles swallows hard and groans. He claws deeper at Derek’s back, hoping that it elicits the reaction he wants. It does—Derek’s voice gets caught between human and wolf again. He looks at Stiles—eyes flickering red, heavy lidded, and so fucking _intent_ that it makes Stiles’ lungs falter and his dick twitch. Derek breaks his rhythm by shoving balls deep, hard and quick, and staying there, leaving Stiles’ lower half poised above the mattress with only Derek’s left arm to support him. Derek grabs Stiles’ dick in his other hand and works him slowly.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes. He squirms backward, trying to fuck himself on Derek if he can, but it’s a futile effort. Derek’s left arm keeps him firmly pinned, and Derek stares down at him, looking a complicated mix of amused—the lighthearted, loving kind—and absolutely fucking turned on. Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or look away, feeling a bit shy under such heavy observation.

Whatever Derek’s reservations were before, he breaks them by lowering Stiles back onto the bed, closing his hands around Stiles’ hips, and riding him hard and fast. Derek’s eyes are fully red now. It’s sort of intimidating but also kind of hot the way the color change means a looser grip on his control. To Stiles, it’s a victory— _anything_ that gets under Derek’s skin is a victory.

Stiles learns when to meet Derek’s body. His legs are trembling in Derek’s grip because they’re unused to being spread so far apart for such an extended period of time. But Stiles can bear it. He has to bear it. He’s so fucking close—he can feel the knot of _something_ —nerves or energy or whatever—somehow simultaneously coiling tighter and expanding like he’s ready to burst.

Derek pants into his neck. “Come on, Stiles. Come _on_.”

Stiles bites his lip hard enough to taste a bit of blood as Derek jerks him off. He sobs something—which is fucking embarrassing, but he can’t really help himself—and comes all over his stomach and Derek’s hand.

Derek’s rhythm degenerates into these short, quick, mindless thrusts and Derek is gasping above him, into his mouth, and against his shoulder before releasing a low, guttural groan and bucking inside him one last time.

Stiles restlessly shifts his legs when Derek lowers him back onto the mattress. He’s sore everywhere. The leftover bruises from yesterday throb. His ass feels overstretched and overused and there’s a twinge nagging his lower back and vibrating in his thigh muscles. Fuck, he feels destroyed, but in a good way—a completed way. Derek kisses him once, sloppy and careless, and then pulls out of him. Stiles watches him tie off the condom and toss it in the small trashcan in the far corner of the room. Perfect aim. Ha.

So there they are, just lying side by side, half staring at the ceiling, half staring at each other. Wow. The aftermath really is as awkward as he’s heard. It’s not that Stiles is suddenly overcome with shyness, it’s just he doesn’t know the appropriate, non-conspicuous way to switch from what they’ve done to something mundane. They don’t have an established routine for this like they do with everything else, and it leaves Stiles feeling like he needs to lay down the beginnings of a pattern but his mind is fucking blank. Are they supposed to talk about the weather? Organize a victory parade?

“So,” Stiles begins.

Derek glances at him with one eyebrow raised but he still looks kind of blissed out. He abruptly sits up to pull at the bottom corner of his bed sheet and uses it to wipe the mess on Stiles’ stomach clean. He throws the corner back over the foot of the bed once he’s finished.

“Oh, thanks,” Stiles says. He kicks at the wrinkles by his feet and contemplates grabbing the edge of the sheet beside him and tugging it over his body like a cotton cocoon.

Derek hums and rolls onto his side, facing Stiles. His eyes are closed. Every bit of him is visible and Stiles marvels at the way Derek doesn’t seem to care about how naked he is.

Stiles tries to think of it like being in a locker room. It helps. He turns to face Derek more directly. “Hey, I kind of want to go to sleep too. But I’m also kind of hungry.”

Derek opens an eye. “So go make yourself something.”

“But I’m your guest.”

“Oh yeah?” Derek says. “And that means I’m supposed to serve you, does it?”

“Generally. If you’re a proper host.”

Derek sits up and stares down at Stiles, evaluating him. Stiles studies him in turn. Derek’s lips are red, which strikes him as odd. They’ve been rubbed raw so technically it’s bodily damage, but they don’t seem to be losing their color. Derek’s hair is a mess (Stiles can only imagine the state of his own hair), but it’s not ridiculous. It’s like looking at one of those Calvin Klein jeans ads or something, with the hair styled to give the impression of sex. It’s actually kind of infuriating.

“So what will it be? Rabbit or squirrel?” Derek asks.

Stiles groans and punches Derek’s pillow so it bats him in the face. “You’re such a dick.”

Derek shoves the pillow down. “And you’re a pain in the ass.”

Stiles laughs. “Don’t you mean—”

“ _Don’t_ say it,” Derek warns.

“—that I have a pain _in my_ ass?”

“I’m definitely not getting you anything now.”

“Are you trying to make me beg?” Stiles doesn’t use a fake sultry voice. He’s just grinning from ear to ear, teasing all the way.

Derek levels him with a look. “Fine. Scrambled eggs and toast. If you want something fancier, make it yourself.” He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, shuffles toward the bureau, which gives Stiles a nice view of his ass, and slips on a pair of sweatpants he pulled from the second drawer. As he’s heading out the bedroom door, he mumbles, “Fucking pain in the ass.”

“Are we talking about your ass now? Because that can be arranged if you want!” Stiles calls after him.

***

They spend the rest of the day that way—fucking and experimenting. They shower separately and try a few more things afterward—Stiles sucking Derek off (which is definitely not a sport he’s getting a gold medal for—yet), Stiles on his left side with Derek pushing inside him from behind—before they shower again and try something else. They don’t try fucking in the shower because it’s too small and one of them would end up with their head through the glass. That’s not a story he wants to tell the paramedics. Or anyone he meets in the afterlife.

When they’re—or at least Stiles is—too sore and worn out to do anything else, including kiss because there’s only so much stubble burn a guy can stand before that’s out too, they retire on the couch and do what they normally do: half watch TV and half snipe at it, with a mix of looking for ways to get under each other’s skin.

That’s where Isaac finds them when he comes home. He immediately bolts for his room and returns with two air-fresheners brandished in each hand like he’s some duel-shooting gunslinger from a cheesy Hollywood western. He sprays around Derek’s door frame as if that’s somehow going to bully their scent into staying in a confined space. Isaac must empty both cans because there’s a cloudy mist that lingers in the air for four whole minutes afterward. It’s so strong that all three of them have to evacuate and loiter on the weird balcony/hallway outside Derek’s door for ten awkward minutes. Isaac doesn’t look sorry in the least.

All in all, it’s a great vacation before Stiles has to commit himself to banishing the storm hanging above their heads.

***

On Tuesday, at seven in the fucking morning to be exact, Lydia picks Stiles up at the apartment. He gives her directions to Scott’s house so he can retrieve his jeep. It’s not a bad idea to switch up who he’s staying with and have some truth to hide behind. He doesn’t have to lie to his dad about hanging out with Lydia, although that inspires a stern ‘are you sure that’s a good idea’ tone from his dad when Stiles calls to check in and inform him of the switch. The call ends with a lighthearted ‘I’ll see you around’ from his dad. It’s one of those casual jokes that has some hidden request underneath.

Erica is already in the car when Stiles slides into the back seat. She giggles in a way that’s meant to draw his and Lydia’s attention. He has a pretty good idea what she’s going to say.

Erica swivels around in her seat to leer at Stiles. “I bet I know what you and Derek have been up to,” she sings.

“You bring a whole new meaning to being nosy,” Stiles says.

Her grin sharpens. “Not my fault you smell like you took a bath in Derek’s—”

“Nope,” he interrupts. “You’re not finishing that sentence.”

“ _Sweat_ ,” Erica says, batting her eyelashes innocently. She turns back to face the windshield. “I’m just messing with you. I only brought it up so Lydia wasn’t left out of the loop.”

“Oh, I wasn’t out of the loop,” Lydia chirps. “The slight limp was a dead giveaway.”

Stiles groans and rubs his palms over his face. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hide this from the others (not that he ever intended to), and he knew they would harass him about it when they found out, but still. It’s incredibly awkward, like those dreams where he walks up the chalkboard to do a math problem only to realize that he’s naked as soon as he reaches the front of the room. Seriously, what’s there to say? ‘Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is my dick. And I use it for stuff. Thank you and goodnight.’

Lydia turns down the lane.

“Any details you’d care to share?” Erica asks.

“Like?” Stiles hazards.

Erica clicks her tongue thoughtfully. “Firearms? Can you describe the gun he’s carrying?” she says in this deep tone that’s meant to mock a police inquiry.

“I wonder what Derek would think about his sweet, little Erica fantasizing about his dick?” Stiles muses.

“I’m not _fantasizing_. I’m just curious about _you_ and _him_. Here I thought you’d be on top of the world, ready to sing it from the rooftops. Guess we’re not friends like that.” Oh no. She isn’t going to guilt trip him for not spilling his sex life. “Talking about this stuff is _fun_. And I’ve never gotten to talk about it—sex—with a guy. I thought it would be—” Erica breaks off, searching for the right word.

“Enlightening?” Lydia supplies with a sort of light, lofty humor.

“Yeah,” Erica says. “Yeah, that. Enlightening.”

It’s a quick little snapshot of their friendship. It’s a well-documented fact that Lydia Martin loves sex and she sure as fuck isn’t shy about getting what she wants. Stiles can see Lydia Martin as something of a sex guru to Erica. That’s not to say that Lydia doesn’t have her own insecurities, because Stiles has a feeling she does—there’s not a person on the planet that _doesn’t_ —but she’s very good at hiding them. From what Stiles can tell of Erica, even now, with her blonde bombshell attitude and get-up, she’s still got this need to gather information and reach an understanding before her power feels legitimate. And Stiles sympathizes with that more than she’ll ever know.

Then Lydia says, “I find it hard to believe that Stiles Stilinski wants to be tight-lipped and prudish about nailing a hot alpha werewolf and the town’s resident bad boy.” If Lydia had her hands free, Stiles doesn’t doubt she would’ve performed a haughty hair flip.

Ironic, considering Derek is about as dangerous as wet paper.

It’s a true enough evaluation; Stiles _is_ pretty pleased with himself. His nerves are swimming with this stupid, giddy sense of victory.

“So you’re going to go brag to Scott,” Lydia continues. “Seems like such a waste. Someone who can’t fully appreciate the details of your successes.”

Cute. Erica goes for a clumsy guilt trip and Lydia goes for viper persuasion. Again, what she says is true enough. But at least Scott won’t ever use what Stiles tells him as a means to get back at Derek or embarrass him. Stiles isn’t so sure Lydia and Erica would exercise the same restraint. He doubts they’d ever be malicious about it—they’d just be teasing at worst—but sex is a sensitive thing to Derek. Sure, everyone will know they’re fucking and he and Derek will be teased endlessly anyway, but having specific details turned against them could really put a crack in Derek’s trust and security.  

For Lydia and Erica, sex between their partners isn’t really the same as sex between him and Derek. This is like a fucking therapy breakthrough or something. After the travesty of Kate Argent, achieving this level of intimacy is one of the highest levels of trust Derek can offer him and Stiles isn’t ready to fuck that up.

That said, he _does_ want to shout it from the roof tops. Preferably when he’s eighteen and Derek won’t get arrested. It’s a rather uncomfortable place to be.

“All right,” Stiles says. “My name is Stiles Stilinski and I had sex with Derek Hale.”      

“And?” Erica presses eagerly.

“And it was _magical_ ,” Stiles gushes and fake swoons against the back seat.

Erica pouts. “You’re no fun.” And she honestly sounds a little betrayed that Stiles won’t give her more than that.

Whatever. A few more streets and they’ll be at Scott’s and Stiles will be in his own car, away from their scrutiny, and when they reach Lydia’s they’ll have more important things to occupy their concern.

“Well,” Lydia says. “Your silence is pretty telling. That’s a lot of anxiety you’ve got bottled up.”

Stiles sighs and casts his eyes to the beige roof of Lydia’s car. Leave it to her to play his ‘I Spy’ observation games. He can just noncommittally defend until they get to Scott’s.

And like a mind reader, Lydia pulls over and blocks his escape strategy. Tou-fucking-ché.

Erica looks confused by Lydia’s decision, and although she may not be consciously aware that two razorblade minds are about to have a faceoff, the quick, nervous flare of gold in her eye tells Stiles that her instincts pick up on the tension shift.

“By all means, you can keep whatever you want to yourself,” Lydia says gently. It’s an unnerving quality in her voice. Stiles doesn’t think he has ever heard her voice lack power and command. “But I think I need to lay down a few of the facts. Whatever you said would never reach anyone else’s ears. Not Boyd’s and certainly not Jackson’s. Total confidentiality.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. This is getting a little out of hand.

“Oh stop,” Lydia says, snippy and much more like herself. “This isn’t about giggling over how big your boyfriend’s dick is. You don’t trust us.”

She moves her first pawn. Stiles will bite. He’ll sacrifice one of his to see her next move. “It’s not really that. Derek’s trust kind of comes first.”

“Allison told me something disturbing about her aunt,” Lydia says. Stiles’ insides freeze. “I’m guessing that’s a factor.”

“What the fuck do you want me to say?” Stiles laughs an incredulous, surprised sound. “Yeah—that’s a huge fucking issue. Yeah, I don’t want to hurt him with some stupid, meaningless gossip. Things are more complicated than you know.”

“Sounds like a pretty heavy burden you’ve put on your shoulders,” Lydia says.

“I know what I signed up for. I’m fine.”

“Yay,” Erica drawls before Lydia can respond. “So glad to be in the car and have no idea what either of you are talking about. It’s fine. I’m pretty used to being invisible.”

Lydia looks at her. “We’re talking about something I’m not supposed to know. And it’s not my secret, or Stiles’ secret, to tell. It would hurt your relationship with Derek to learn what we know before Derek has the confidence to tell you. You’re exactly where you need to be. _I_ don’t really care what Derek thinks of me.” She turns to Stiles. “So I don’t care about using this information to my advantage with probably the only person with the rights to it.”

Guess that makes Kate Argent Lydia’s queen and Derek Lydia’s king.

“It must be killing you that you have to treat your relationship like a walking time-bomb,” Lydia says breezily. “You tell yourself you shouldn’t cut the red wire but—will you look at that— _all_ of them are red. Your dad can’t know about it. No one outside a few people can know about it. You can’t talk about it without feeling guilty or worrying that everything might fall apart. So you do what you always do and fall on Scott. And Scott will do his best to put on a cute, puppy smile that will lack input and the invested inquisition you hope to receive. Maybe he’ll adapt. Maybe he won’t. Either way, there’s only so much vapid, well-meaning encouragement you can stomach. Derek is your pretty, little cross to bear.”

Anger sparks in Stiles’ chest and burns all the way up his throat. “Fuck _you_. Don’t make me out to be some fucking martyr for trying to do right by him. What, am I supposed to flaunt him all over fucking town? Should I write a memoir about our underage sexual adventures and market it as the next 50 Shades of Gray? What the hell would you know about handling—” Stiles falters, mindful of Erica’s ignorance and the fact that it should be maintained. “—handling someone who’s been through absolute fucking hell and back. Yeah, it takes a lot of consideration and thinking. And I would be a shit person and _wrong_ for him if I didn’t do it.”  

“Why so _serious_?” Lydia says.

His appreciation for the Batman reference and his outrage at her flippancy go to war and stall his ability to retort.

“I’m sure treating Derek like a psychiatric patient is doing wonders for your relationship.”

His mind goes blank with fury. Did she just fucking say that? “ _Lydia_!” Stiles snarls.

Erica slumps down her seat, an awkward third-wheel to this fucking stupid argument.

Lydia bears down on Stiles with a hard, unmoving stare. “I’m sure you help him in all the ways he needs. In the process, you don’t let yourself _enjoy_ anything outside of your lonely little island. Welcome to the breeding ground for codependency,” she says with a sweeping hand. “You want to wear Derek’s trauma like a wool coat in the middle of summer? _Fine_. You’ll look like an idiot and a vain jackass. Believe me. It’s pretty unnerving when the person you’re with is willing to sacrifice themselves every time you have a problem.” Stiles is pretty sure that’s a dig at him, at how he had tried to attract Lydia’s attention in the past, but he doesn’t know for certain. “You’re going to force him to feel helpless all for the sake of playing the hero. Our ‘stupid gossip’ was an offer for you to not take your relationship so seriously.” She swings back to the steering wheel and starts the car. “If you don’t talk to us, at least be a little more selfish before you spontaneously combust.”

That’s a bit fucking dramatic—Stiles doesn’t _sacrifice_ himself every time he thinks Derek needs him. He’s furious with how Lydia stampeded into his business when she had no fucking right, but he supposes that makes them even. It’s hard to admit that she makes a few fair points. He does feel isolated by the nature of his and Derek’s relationship. And he does feel silenced by all the restrictions around him, and those restrictions _are_ suffocatingandexhausting. He decides to give it a shot. He’ll give them the benefit of the doubt and talk about all the things he plans on telling Scott. If it backfires, he won’t do it again. Simple as that.

“Wow,” Stiles lolls his head against the head rest to glance out the window. “You really want to know the size of Derek’s dick that badly?”

Nobody laughs, but Stiles thinks he sees Lydia roll her eyes and Erica sits up in her seat with a small smile.

***

Stiles narrowly misses getting pegged in the head with a loose twig—courtesy of the wind that just won’t let up—when he picks up his jeep at Scott’s. Once Stiles, Lydia, and Erica arrive at Lydia’s, the three of them head up to Lydia’s room and set to work. In one hand, she shows him one hell of a dizzying pictograph illustrated in five colors and in her other hand, she holds a dusty old book bound in very suspicious leather.

She brandishes the pictograph and says, “This is a map of all the patterns I saw on the Nemeton. It looks like this spell,” she lingers on the word, holds onto it like an atheist trying to talk about God, “was cast in layers or stages. I’ve been able to identify three out of five of them. Something about siphoning, devouring, and absorbing.”

Erica plops down on Lydia’s bed, puts in a set of ear-buds connected to an ipod, and pulls a laptop onto her lap. She completely disregards the books carefully laid out on the foot of the bed. Stiles throws her a questioning look.

Erica shrugs. “I don’t know anything about this stuff. I think it’s better if I stay out of the way and let the geniuses work. I’m your muscle in case we lose power and the Avenging Angel shows up. Or you accidentally conjure Satan. Whichever comes first.”

“Well, that depends,” Stiles says. “Lydia, do you plan on calling Jackson over?”

Lydia’s finely plucked eyebrows rise in a silent threat.

“How might I serve you, mistress?” Stiles asks.

With the same unblinking, unforgiving stare, Lydia presents the book to him. “This describes how to reverse engineer a spell. Right now we need to identify the remaining two layers using those books,” she indicates the books on the foot of her bed. “Don’t expect to find a direct answer. You’ll see a few of the symbols scattered throughout the books. They’ll be hard to spot. It’s a bit like if Where’s Waldo was an implement of torture.” She turns her menacing stare on the books. “You will be crying at the end of this. You might find a few symbols that are incredibly similar but lack one little, itty-bitty line. Don’t ignore the itty-bitty line. The itty-bitty line means the difference between wishing for a light drizzle or a blazing typhoon of hellfire. Don’t ignore the itty-bitty lines, Stiles.”

Right. No pressure then. “You realize I don’t know how to read any of these, right?”

Lydia rolls her eyes so fiercely that for a moment, all Stiles can see are the eerie whites of her eyes. “I translated them ages ago. They’re in the notebooks underneath the books.”

On second glance, Stiles can see ends of spiral bindings peeking out beneath the wooden and leather bound tomes.

“I’ll be experimenting with the reverse spells.” Lydia pulls the book in Stiles’ hands back into her possession. “I have to master something small and understand what I’m doing before attempting a reverse spell on something as big as the Nemeton. _You_ get to decode the remaining two layers. Godspeed,” she says and settles in a comfy armchair in the corner of her room.

***

It takes thirty-two hours. And by thirty-two hours, Stiles means thirty-two _solid_ , _non-stop_ , _grueling_ , _unending_ hours. No sleep. Three Aderrall. Many tears. Lydia wasn’t kidding about that. He was ready to burn down the world by the eighteenth hour.

Mrs. Martin was kind enough to provide room service and keep them hydrated and fed. She didn’t comment on three teenagers slaving away on some project involving old, ancient books for an unhealthy amount of hours. Stiles doesn’t know what that says about her or Lydia. Her mom was too unfazed for an intensive, independent study session to be out of the ordinary.

What does it take to gain a mind like Lydia’s? Stiles wonders and worries.

“Lydia,” Stiles blinks his bleary, abused eyes in her direction. She’s fuzzy at the edges, almost pixelated. “How long have you been awake? You did all of this work on Monday, right? _How_?”

Erica glances at her with a Derek expression—a sort of worry-constipated scowl.

Lydia’s line of sight doesn’t stray from the book laid open on her knees, but Stiles thinks he can see her eyes squint like someone trying to pinpoint an accurate estimation. “A little over two days? Fifty hours? No—fifty-six,” she decides.

Holy fucking shit. “ _Lydia_.”

Lydia slowly glances up at him without moving her head. She keeps most of her face tilted downward, giving a severe look to her eyes. “Don’t baby me when I have a dangerous book in my hands. Especially if it makes you a hypocrite.”

It doesn’t make him a hypocrite. He knows his limits, or at least, he never cared about a project enough to pursue it for longer than forty-eight hours. And he has only broken the forty-eight hour mark five times for life-or-death research projects. Lydia is going to shatter at some point. Stiles doesn’t say anything because he knows she’s too stubborn to listen and she’s smart enough to know the drawbacks of her ‘curriculum.’

“Why so serious?” he mutters to himself.

“Staying awake for long periods of time depends on chemistry, really.” Lydia turns a page. “Eat the right things to compensate for rabidly declining energy levels. Take micro-naps to prevent the worst effects of sleep deprivation. It’s a _science_ not self-mutilation, so keep your judgments off your face,” she says primly.

Erica gives Stiles a silent, ‘what can you do’ frown.

“Well, think whatever _doesn’t_ help you sleep at night,” Stiles says. “You’re playing a dangerous game. You know it and I know it.”

“Price of excellence. Anyway, I think I have everything I need. Are you finished yet?”

He nods. He must’ve read each book—all _seven_ of them—and their correspondent translations four times over. He’s had to make potentially catastrophic inferences, but he thinks he has all of the symbols deciphered and organized. To weed out any mistakes, he cross-referenced each symbol in each diagram (including Lydia’s).

All five layers are identified: decomposition to _prepare_ for absorption (Lydia looked momentarily devastated by her imprecision), siphon/channeling, a beacon or a specified focal point, devouring, and lastly, regeneration/rebirth.

There are notes scribbled all over sections involving resurrection, where he picked up most of the symbols in the regeneration/rebirth layer. Things like, ‘is this what he did,’ ‘dream symptoms similar,’ and more disturbingly, ‘what am I now?’ All references to Peter, Stiles assumes.

“Good,” Lydia says. “I’ve got the hang of reversion.”

“Here’s to not dying or turning ourselves into frogs,” Erica says, removing her ear-buds.

Everyone grabs their things—magical weaponry, oils, mountain ash, potions, flashlights, flares, and Stiles’ handy fire poker—and get in the jeep.

***

All in all, everything goes off without a hitch. That probably should’ve been the first sign that something wasn’t right.

They call Derek to tell him they’re going to undo whatever the darach did and wait for him to arrive in the damp, bug infested forest surrounding the Nemeton. When he finally shows up with Isaac on foot (he left the Camaro by the side of the road since it can’t endure rough terrain—not that he’d let it, even if it could), the five of them—Stiles, Lydia, Erica, Derek, and Isaac—lay down the reverse spell over the Nemeton’s bloodstained rings.

“Where’s Boyd?” Erica asks as she leaps off one of the Nemeton’s massive, uplifted roots.

“Jackson’s,” Derek says. He bends over the Nemeton and inspects their work. “With Scott. Didn’t want Jackson on his own.”

Well, that’s certainly an unfortunate combination. Stiles wonders if Jackson has tried to set Scott on fire yet.

“And Peter?” Stiles asks. He sounds accusing, which is fully his intention. Bastard is never around when it counts.

“Who knows?” Derek sighs.

Yeah. Certainly not the alpha.

They’re still facing the Nemeton when a loud, piercing ring shocks their ears. It scares the shit out of Stiles and he knows he’s not alone in hearing it; Derek, Erica, and Isaac shout pained, startled noises and throw their hands over their ears in a vain effort to protect themselves. Lydia’s spine goes ramrod straight like a puppet’s strings pulled tight. The sound trails off into an annoying mosquito buzz before vanishing completely.

Lydia and Stiles meant to depart before the darach came to recast its spell—Stiles isn’t exactly up to date in his Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons and Lydia’s reflexes and mental faculties are too fried by sleep deprivation to be of much use—but they don’t have the chance run.

The atmosphere gets abducted—there’s no wind, no humidity, sound, or even temperature. It all disappears like the texture of the world has been filed down to a silky sheen.

“ _What_ have you _done_?” a woman demands.

Everyone whips around and buckles into a defensive position. Lydia grabs her kit of potions and vials of ash with trembling hands. Stiles knows it’s not really fear that’s making her shake. Her nerves are overtaxed—they can’t handle an adrenaline rush. Stiles grabs his iron fire poker and his hands are trembling just as badly. He and Lydia slink behind Isaac, Derek, and Erica.

Derek’s stance falters. His knees straighten and his arms bounce downward like he nearly set them at his sides.

“I _know_ you,” he says like he’s had an awe-inspiring epiphany. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

The furious woman is beautiful with long, brown, curly hair and dark, dark eyes. She’s wrapped in these wispy gray sheets from head to toe, looking every bit the part of some mystical sage of the forest.

It’s odd—Stiles has seen people bare their teeth in a show of mock geniality and for blatant intimidation purposes, and he has seen people use a visibly genuine smile to unnerve others, but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone bare their teeth by accident, like they mean to be obliging but something angry and cruel comes out instead. That’s how the woman comes across. There’s a struggle on her face. Her eyes zero in on Derek and the creases and tension in her brow smooth away and reappear sporadically. She recognizes Derek too. Stiles knows that because she can’t settle on an expression. That’s not usually a difficult task when regarding a stranger.

“Julia Baccari,” she says at length.

Derek lowers his arms. “You were with Kali’s pack. I thought she killed everyone.”

Julia’s pupils and irises flash white. “She tried.”

She suddenly snaps her head away like she’s avoiding a slap to the face. The muscles in her neck flex. She grits her teeth as her face shimmers for a moment and throws off this weird, ghostly after image of gashed, disfigured, poorly mended skin.

Whatever happened leaves Julia hunched forward, gasping and vicious. “I’ll be kind,” she manages through ragged breaths. “I’ll let you get out of my way so I can fix what you’ve done.”

“Did you kill the Trúma?” Derek asks, taking a careful step forward.

Julia laughs, quick and sharp, grinding her teeth hard enough to make a muscle jump in her jaw. Erica growls low in her chest but stops when Derek hushes her with a wave of his arm.

“Do you really need me to state the obvious?”

“All for that?” Stiles is as incredulous and appalled as the situation will allow. It’s way out of line—it could make relations worse, break the thin ice they all know they’re standing on. But he can’t really believe it. She did this for some cosmetic surgery?

Again, Julia’s eyes flash an eerie, dead white and the frightening afterimage ripples over her face. Her mouth curls into an enraged sneer. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.” She speaks low and soft—the purr of a calculating predator. In this strange bubble of nothingness, Julia’s voice is the only thing with texture and heat. “You think I did this for _vanity’s_ sake, don’t you?”

She shifts her heavy gaze onto Derek. “But _you_ know. You know that my Kali got herself brainwashed. She threw away a _lifetime_ of love and family and friends.” Julia loses her focus, mystified by the horror of her words. Then she whispers, “She ripped everyone _apart_. I lived, but every time I saw my reflection or touched my face or,” a brittle laugh, “There was a lot of nerve damage. Forget what I saw or what I could feel on my _fingertips_ , I was in pain every waking moment. Everything I felt—every time I saw myself, it was just a constant reminder of what she did and what she took away. I just wanted to feel human again.”  

“I’m sorry,” Derek says with a commendable amount of respect and empathy towards someone who’s clearly unhinged. “I really am. But there are consequences. You know that.”

Julia sucks in a breath. “I know. And I don’t care about what I’ve done. So let’s get this over with.”

Derek, Erica, and Isaac spring into motion. Julia bats them away with a swish of her hand, sending them careening backward with some invisible force. Erica and Derek manage to land on their feet while Isaac does the best he can to minimize damage by tucking his body into a ball and skidding across the ground on his side. He’s up in a second. The three of them charge again with the same ineffective results, but their continuous assault gives Lydia the time she needs to pitch a glass vial at Julia. The timing is perfect—just as Julia tosses Derek, Erica, and Isaac out of range, the vial breaks at Julia’s feet, releasing a cloud of white powder. Mistletoe.

Julia’s scream sounds like the call of a fox at night except prolonged, shrill, and murderous. The glamor concealing her scars withers away and Stiles sees her disfigurement in all of its horrifying glory. Whatever Julia cast over them shatters—the world comes back to them humid and full of underappreciated white noise.

Isaac, who had been flung the shortest distance, takes advantage of Julia’s loosened defenses and lunges. His clawed hand swings at her unguarded side and catches her across her hip and stomach, tearing slits in her wispy clothing. Blood splatters lines across the dirt.

The attack comes at a price. There’s a sickening crack before Julia tosses Isaac aside. He’s screaming in agony and Stiles sees something strange about the position of Isaac’s arm. His shoulder is out of place.

Stiles doesn’t have time to see Isaac’s arm pop back into its socket or dwell on if it will pop in properly without a helping hand because Julia’s gliding towards him. No—she’s going for Lydia because Lydia has proven to be a threat. Julia flings Lydia’s kit into the forest and shoves her down with enough force to make her slide several feet across the dirt. Her spine collides with the Nemeton’s base, knocking the wind out of her but not her fight. She’s on her feet in moments, although she’s swaying, disoriented and in pain.

Erica and Derek are also on their feet. Erica shifts behind Julia’s back before flying into a running leap. Julia isn’t caught by surprise; she turns in time to send Erica spiraling back, but in that moment, she neglects Stiles.

And he uses every ounce of his strength to spear her abdomen with the iron fire poker.

Julia wails again, the same blood-curdling shriek, but she’s far from defeated. The fire poker won’t pierce any deeper than a few inches. Her flesh is tougher than Stiles thought it would be and he knows it’s tougher because it’s _not_ human, despite what Julia said. It’s like he’s trying to stab a soft tree trunk. Her body resists him, pushing the fire poker further down his grip. Still, he tries to drive it deeper by bracing one foot in front of the other and bearing down his weight. Julia waves a hand at him but nothing happens. The iron—it’s nullifying her magic.

And then Derek is at Stiles’ side. He closes a hand over the fire poker, just above Stiles’, and jams the iron clean through her. Julia doesn’t scream this time. Her eyes go wide with a sort of dawning wonder. She falls. Her loose, wispy cloth fans around her.

Derek kneels by her side and takes her hand. Blue blood trickles out of her mouth and gushes out of the wound, rapidly spreading color through the cloth. Somehow, Stiles knows that blood isn’t really hers. He knows that color and he knows that viscosity. It’s the Trúma’s blood—it has to be. He feels a little queasy knowing that she was keeping its blood inside her like a fed mosquito.

“I’m sorry, Julia,” Derek says gently.

Julia coughs and laughs. The laugh, surprisingly, isn’t mocking or bitter.

“I can see myself,” she babbles. “I can see my reflection in your eyes and I’m _me_.”

The strange thing is, her illusion hasn’t returned. To Stiles’ eyes, her face is still a collection of deep gouges and misshapen skin.

Lydia steps beside Stiles. Her kit taps his leg. He glances at her and is somewhat relieved to find her face impassive. He feels the same. He’s just happy he won’t be hunted anymore and that it’s over. Actually, he’s not happy at all. He’s numb. He stabbed a woman and now she’s dying. He did that. But now he can go home.

Stiles does wonder if he should have more remorse because of the look on Derek’s face. Derek isn’t quite heartbroken, but there’s sympathy in the softened lines around his mouth and eyes. Sympathy, understanding, and something a little like loss.

There’s an unexpected shout a little further in the forest. Isaac. Sounds like Erica shoved his shoulder back into place.

Julia makes a needy, desperate noise in the back of her throat. “Wasn’t alone. I wasn’t by myself when…when.”

She doesn’t get to finish. As last words go, they’re suitably cryptic.

Derek lays her hand over the wound in her stomach and stands. Isaac and Erica join the rest of them and they all gaze down at Julia Baccari with a shifty sort of disbelief. Was that really all that needed to be done? As fights go, it was fast.

Derek inclines his head and rubs his hand over Stiles’ shoulder before trudging toward the jeep’s front passenger door. Stiles follows, walking around Julia’s body without looking at it. Erica, Isaac, and Lydia step in behind him. When all five of them are crammed inside, slamming their doors after themselves, they’re silent. Stiles stares at the path curving around the Nemeton and continuing into the Preserve, where he and Derek saw the Trúma just eight days ago.

A shifting movement catches his eye and he stares more intently.

He doesn’t glance away to see if anyone else catches something because he doesn’t want to lose whatever he’s seeing in the intricate maze of branches and trunks in front of him, but he assumes they haven’t. He _has_ to be imagining things because surely one of the three _werewolves_ in the car would’ve been alerted either by their keen eyes, ears, or nose. But no one’s saying a word.

And he’s not imagining things. He saw something for sure this time—a flash of white.

“You going to start the car anytime soon?” Erica asks.

“Hey,” Derek says and shakes Stiles’ shoulder. “You alright? Your pulse is kicking up. What’s wrong?”

Stiles’ heart lurches.

It’s Mimi. She’s standing in the path. Stiles opens his mouth to say something but he can see her press a finger to her lips.

“Nothing. Just nerves,” he says instead.

Mimi turns her pointed finger on Julia’s corpse and swings her head from side to side, indicating a negative. For what, Stiles doesn’t know.

He hears her voice as plain as day, right in his ear. “Not the problem. Come back later.”

And then she’s gone.

“I’m driving,” Derek says. His irises are red and he’s looking in the direction Stiles was staring, probably trying to figure out what the fuck he was looking at for so long. “You don’t seem alert and you sound like you’re about to have a panic attack.”

Lydia speaks before Stiles can protest. “He also hasn’t slept in almost thirty-six hours.”

“Jesus,” Derek hisses. “ _Out_.”

Stiles and Derek swap places and Stiles can’t really bring himself to argue. He’s fucking dead on his feet, trembling from exhaustion and anxiety. And if there’s any chance that he misinterpreted Mimi’s warning, he’s praying for it.

“I’m telling Boyd that we are the champions,” Erica says as Derek starts the jeep and swings down the path.

“Good idea,” Isaac says. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to get out of babysitting duty.”

Stiles doesn’t see Lydia shoot Isaac a look, but he thinks he can feel it.

Aside from the earth and rocks crunching under Stiles’ jeep, it’s completely silent. He and Lydia would be asleep if not for the constant, jarring bumps jolting them awake or smacking their heads against the window when they lean too close. And Stiles knows Erica has werewolf stamina going for her, but she has to be tired too what with a brawl piggybacking on an all-nighter. Then there’s Derek—he’s either dwelling on Julia or concentrating on the road. At any rate, his mind is in a whole other world. And Isaac has never been much of a talker, so his voice isn’t likely to fill the void.

It’s ten past six when Erica’s ringtone breaks the silence and startles everyone.

“Hey, Boyd,” she answers.

Stiles hears the Boyd’s garbled voice but not his words. Whatever he says causes Erica to shout, “ _What_!” and Derek to jerk his head around at Erica then back at the path.

“What?” Lydia demands. “Remember that the humans don’t possess super hearing.”

Derek’s fingers grip the steering wheel tight enough to make it squeak. “The Avenging Angel isn’t gone. Jackson was attacked. He’s injured but healing.”

A cold shock of anxiety pushes bile into Stiles’ throat. He barely manages to hold it down. Just to ease some of his violent energy, he twists his clammy hands together. He wants to punch something. Fuck, his mind reels. _Fuck_. There’s a noise in his head like the shrill whistle of an airborne bomb falling to earth.

Fuck. What do they do _now_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It kills me to say this when I’m so close to the end, but I’m going on hiatus. Due to the weird, hostile game of hide and seek TW’s PR team has been playing with the fandom and the amnesiac canon, I’ve just been really put off by the show and what has become of its characters.
> 
> It’s like obsessing over a problem: you can think on it until smoke is piling out of your ears but no solution will come to you. And then you go outside for a moment and look at a leaf and everything falls into place. I’ve been too close to this thing for too long, so I’m hoping some distance will wipe the slate clean and I’ll be able to resurrect my passion for these characters through a ‘these were the good ol’ days’ re-watch.
> 
> Happy fandoming to the rest of you and thanks for reading. :)


End file.
